


Demesne

by travellinghopefully



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Smut, did I mention the smut, hint of plot if you squint, prompt, tinge of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt Malcolm/Reader, smut/angst, 5 words - surreptitious, clandestine, demesne, ineffable, panacea. </p><p>For @lizabuffw aka QueenElizabeth - a delightful collaboration.</p><p>Due to, er...reasons, this is going to be multi-chapter</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“MY OFFICE NOW!”

“You, you don’t get to bollock me! You, are not my boss.” 

Poking him in the chest to emphasise each word as he walked backwards into his office. Heedless of how fierce he was, heedless of the waves of anger spilling off him. His fury almost palpable.

Realising as he stepped through the door he was turning and locking it. Stopping just inside the room you turned to him in incredulity. He pulled you into his arms, kissing you with a passion and desperation that astonished you. He kissed you like a drowning man gasping for air.

Pulling back you found yourself flush against the wall.

“Malcolm, we can’t.... We can’t keep doing this.”

“Shut up!” He implored.

He was kissing you just beneath your ear, moving down your throat, pushing your shirt open to touch more of you, kiss more of you, his body crowding yours.

“We’ll be found out...you do know where you work?” 

Somehow keeping your head whilst Malcolm appeared to have completely lost his reason was an unwanted challenge. True, it was Saturday, true there was almost no-one else in the building, true being eviscerated by Malcolm was a valid reason for being in his office, but someone would notice. There was always someone determined to use something against Malcolm. 

This was his demesne, his kingdom. Whatever anyone else said, here he was the one who held the reins of power – not the king, never one to be showy, but the power, the brains.

You weren’t sure what you were to each other, but you knew you didn’t want this to end. But here, the office, this was madness. Malcolm was so careful, so controlled, so controlling, and yet, he was shaking against you, his knee sliding between yours, his hand pulling your shirt, his hand against the bare flesh of your back, the other pinning your arms above your head as he continued to devour you. The heat of him against you, the smell of his cologne, the smell that was just him. You just wanted to give in, let him do anything he wanted with you, arch against his touch, drag your fingers through his curls, scratch your nails against his scalp, make him keen. Yet, he was never reckless, he was never careless, one of you had to stay clear headed.

Again.

“Malcolm, we can’t.”

He would deny the whimper, he would deny the growl, the look of utter desperation. He stopped, he stepped back, his eyes on you, his stare beyond piercing. You felt like prey in front of him.

“I can’t stop. I need you....I. Need. You.”

He ran his hand over his face, exhaustion and emptiness greying his skin to an unhealthy pallor. The faint crepuscular light from the office windows did nothing to soften his features.

“I don’t need you.” 

A lie. 

He was in deeper than he imagined possible, you had walked into his life and he was lost.

“I want you.”

A pause, a look of pure desperation. The next word barely audible.

“Please?”

Helpless in front of you.

“I’ll stop, if that’s what you want...but you know, you know you need me too.”

He closed the space between you, his lips capturing your breathless “yes.”

His need was utterly evident as he pressed against you, his hands and mouth trying to touch all of you, pulling you against him. He was a mess, you had never known him like this. Yes passionate, yes hard and fast, even frantic, but never out of control. The soft sounds that fell from his mouth as he continued to cover you in kisses, the softest of bites, as he paused to suck against the points that made you mewl, his sounds were the thing that went straight to your core. Spurred your hands to work to remove his clothing, wanting, needing to feel his skin against yours, never close enough, never together long enough. Everything surrounded in a cloak of secrecy, each meeting clandestine, never the satisfaction of being openly together.

Anything that was wrong in the world, all that fell away when you were together, a protective shield surrounding you. Each the balm and panacea for the other’s soul.

You remembered his words, his confession, his fingers intertwined through yours as you lay in a post orgasmic daze, just on the edge of sleep. He’d told you, you were the only freedom he had, the only escape from the cage and prison he’d fashioned for himself. He had sacrificed self, family, friends, all for work, and he was in awe that you somehow balanced all of that. He didn’t speak of the emptiness in himself, the almost visceral loss you saw in him when he was with other people’s children.

You wanted to shelter him, to give him rest, for fuck’s sake to feed him, to snuggle him, to make him feel grounded, make him feel safe, help him to value himself again. Let him know he wasn’t a hollow shell, let him know that he hadn’t burnt his soul for a cause that couldn’t give a fuck. You wanted him to be able to sleep for more that three hours at a time, you wanted him not to feel he had to leave late and arrive early, you wanted his life to have more that this. You wanted his life to have you. And for that to be enough, and you had been afraid until this moment, here, that you weren’t going to be.

Your thoughts were fractured by his hands against you, by the delicious things his fingers were doing to you. You had buried your head in the crook of his neck, holding him, trying somehow to remain standing when your knees had long since given up the battle. He could feel you trembling, he could hear your moans, taste them as he captured the sounds you made with his mouth. His kisses still gloriously filthy, sucking against your tongue, worrying your bottom lip with his teeth, everything unbearably exquisite. You loved him, utterly, totally, completely. You felt him still against you, had you said that out loud? You could say it was the heat of the moment, just one more thing in the mix of endearments, filth and expletives that he made pour from your mouth as his fingers worked against you, bringing you so, so close. He was going to kill you, and you truly didn’t care.

Using what will you had left, somehow walking him backwards ‘til you collided with the sofa. You pushed him down and his grin was positively feral. Finally your hands could close on his belt, undo the single button, work the zip down slowly. His eyes were fixed on your mouth and you realised your tongue was just poking out, in concentration, in anticipation. You dragged your nails over him, slowly, just the ghost of a touch and his hips arched up against your hand, craving, needing, wanting more. His eyes were utterly blown with lust and you lost your self in his gaze, straddling him, holding him still for a moment within the confine of your thighs. Leaning over him, capturing his mouth, kissing him until you had no breath left, leaning your forehead against his, not caring where you were, not caring about the sounds you both made. One of his hands dipped between your legs again, the other moving over your breasts, until his mouth pulled one nipple between his lips, his tongue blazing with heat, gloriously wet, his touch sure and perfect and you crashed over the edge. For a moment you damned him, always, always he put your pleasure first, just once you wanted it to be only about him.

He held you in the circle of his arms, his hands tracing soothing patterns over your back, his lips whispering words against the shell of your ear, peppering what skin he could reach with soft kisses. The languor, the daze that settled over you was perfect, and safe in his arms you wanted to stay there forever.

No, no, this would never do.

You shimmied down Malcolm’s body, kissing a path down his chest, brushing your fingers through his sparse hair, over his stomach, and finally pushing his trousers and boxers down over his hips, down to his knees. You raised yourself, making sure that Malcolm’s eyes met yours. Then you lowered yourself over him, ghosting your mouth over the length of him, breathing against him, causing him to twitch, blowing against the tip and then placing the most fleeting of kisses against him. Raising yourself to look at him again, holding his gaze, very deliberately licking your lips, relishing the taste of him.  
“Jesus, fucking, Christ, woman, you are going to kill me.”

He didn’t look remotely disappointed by the idea.

Marvelling as always that a man so slight in build, so thin, so wiry, could be quite so blessed, you ran your fingers over him, teasing him, knowing you weren’t giving him nearly enough. He was begging you, he was utterly wrecked, his eyes so heavily lidded, so drugged with lust he could barely meet yours. He was writhing under your touch and all he could utter was your name and please, over and over. With each sound, with each word, you could feel your own desire, your own arousal building again, but you pushed that down and focused on him. You pressed your lips against his throbbing flesh, running your tongue over him, lapping at his arousal. Closing your mouth over him, you sucked and hummed and you could feel the tension in him, the need to thrust against you barely held in check, the need for far more than your mouth. Your hand closed round his balls, just teasing them, caressing them with the tips of your fingers, causing him to nearly howl with want. His hands settled in your hair and he was gently pulling you upwards, back to his mouth, back to his embrace. He kissed you as if his life depended on it. 

Smirking against his lips, you reached down, stroking him firmly you moved over him, lowering yourself inch by inch, gasping as he filled you. So perfect, you swore each time he’d been made for you. You held still for an eternity of seconds. His hands found yours, he pulled you towards him. He kissed you between breaths, as you rocked against him. You moved so slowly that he dragged his hands to your hips, holding you, urging you, thrusting up against you, driving you and him closer to the point of bliss. You never wanted this to end, you wanted to remain with him on the precipice, helpless, lost, safe, secure...and your orgasm flowered through you, electricity crackling along every nerve. You weren’t so lost that you didn’t somehow keep moving, staying with him, until you felt him come undone, as he howled against your shoulder, as the last shudders ran through you as each pulse undid every last knot of tension in him, every barrier between you removed. And you would swear with your last breath that you heard him say he loved you.

You pulled him against you, his head between your breasts. You ran your fingers through his hair and his eyes slowly closed, his breathing growing deep and steady. You traced your fingers across his eyebrows, his eyelids, down his nose, fleetingly over his lips, shushing him, telling him to sleep, holding him close. When you were certain he had found sleep, you pulled the throw from the back of the sofa over the pair of you. 

You would keep him safe, you would keep the world at bay.


	2. Surreptious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Appearance of original characters for the purpose of plot (really, plot? I was shocked)
> 
> This is a prequel to the first chapter, only a hint of smut if you squint and use your imagination
> 
> Chapter 3 imminent....lots of stuff happens...
> 
> Really, someone write these summaries for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thrive on feedback (looks pathetically hopeful) please....
> 
> Opportunity for you to have your own bespoke Christmasy fic (not necessarily in time for this Christmas - I still have a leftover halloween fic...) head over to tumblr....you know, if you want....
> 
> No prompt left behind, I know some of you are being very patient....I have notes, pages of notes.....

Fuck, you didn’t want to do this, you didn’t want to do anything, you just wanted to pull the duvet over your head and hibernate until everything went away.

You hated this, you hated feeling like this, you hated everything about it. Fuck this, how could he...

Don’t do it, don’t start that cycle of thought again, don’t, just don’t.

You rummaged through the rack of clothes you’d brought with you on the off chance that suddenly one of them would scream “christening” to you. Nope, they were entirely the same selection as the last time you looked. Business suits, running clothes, one evening dress...

Fuck, there was nothing for it, you were going to have to shop. Could you ask Claudia to go with you? Would she appreciate a break from everything baby, or would she still not be able to tear herself away. You were so happy for her, finally happily married, finally a baby, when it had seemed impossible, after all the heartbreak, after all the loss. Dress shopping versus glorying in her new born....You braced yourself to shop alone. A text couldn’t hurt though, could it? Lure her with cake and coffee and spring the need for a dress on her? If only you were both the same size still, at college you reached the point where you didn’t remember who owned what, now, now, sharing wasn’t an option. Fuck.

You didn’t want to shop, you wanted to sleep and eat cake, if that was even possible. Sleep cake...oh get it together, text Claudia, wait, shop, dress, home, then cake. Ok, not cake, mountain of proposals, family to Skype, reports to write, a run if you were lucky, and if you were really, really lucky the faintest possibility of sleep.

The gods smiled. Claudia declared herself officially insane after the fourth week of maternity leave and would kill for cake. You would meet at hers, and take a taxi, you casually dropped in the mention of a dress...Claudia said you could rummage in the back of her closet, there were still thin clothes in there, good thin clothes, dresses....providing you weren’t lying about the cake.

All in all, win win. No need for clothes shopping, a chat, a laugh, cake, and three prospective dresses borrowed. Don’t think about shoes, don’t even begin to think about shoes, its a christening, not meeting the Queen. Gah, every pair of shoes were sensible, except the evening ones, you couldn’t wear those, severe and sensible would have to do....

You slumped in front of the mountain of paperwork, abandoning your contacts which were feeling increasingly gritty (how long had you been up) you pushed your reading glasses up your nose and set to.

You woke, you weren’t sure how long you’d been asleep. Your phone. You reached to answer it. You’d programmed alarm reminders so you wouldn’t get the time zones wrong. Time to Skype the family good night, the older ones understood, but how could you explain to a 5 year old that mommy wasn’t home. Skype was astonishing, but you couldn’t hug, you couldn’t kiss, it was being forced to watch the world through a window and not being able to take part...Fuck this, you couldn’t feel torn the whole time, family, work, self, although you had lost sight of where “self” figured in all of this. Friends just told you how lucky you were, 6 months in London, as if you were on holiday, as if you weren’t working yourself into the ground, as if trying to hold your family together over thousands of miles wasn’t killing you. You didn’t want to make a fuss, you didn’t want to make waves, it was your problem, not someone else’s, you didn’t want to ruin their day, but, just once, you wanted someone to put you first, take care of you, make decisions so you didn’t have to, to carry some of the load. You didn’t want to be a responsible professional, international success was severely over rated, you would settle for being five, you wanted your biggest decision to be whether you were a fairy or a princess.

Fuck, you really were tired, how much of the mountain in front of you could you put off, if you didn’t run, and took a spit and a lick in the shower, you could have 2 hours sleep, maybe. Not a chance, back to the proposals, a long shower and run when you arrived home, well what you were calling home. At least you could cross “dress” off the list, maybe there would be a 10 minute window when a pair of shoes would leap out and let you buy them without interrupting the rest of your schedule. Yeah, entirely realistic between 5 am on Friday morning and the christening on Saturday morning, maybe you could buy a pair on the way to the church. You double checked the time and directions. Work, work, work, don’t let your focus slip.

..............................................

New shoes. What had you been thinking? New shoes hurt, but they did look so much better with the dress, you felt less like someone’s frumpy maiden aunt...well that was new, you hadn’t bothered or cared for months what you looked like.

A whirl of hugging. Claudia’s brother, looking amazing, still the same brown puppy dog eyes, but he’d grown into looking like Robert Downey Jnr, he picked you up and whirled you around, still the little brother you didn’t have, and it had been too long. Too long since you’d seen him, too long since you’d had fun. Was it ok to be irresponsible at a christening? You had been honoured and thrilled when Claudia had asked you to be a god-parent, she had said she needed at least one person who knew what they were doing. Her brother was another god-parent, the other two you didn’t know. Friends of Claudia’s husband? A man in a severe suit, tall, gaunt, something about him, you shrugged, and a woman, who made so little impression, that you immediately forgot her. You slapped yourself inwardly, this was someone Claudia wanted as a god-parent for her longed for son, the woman was someone, focus.

The service was mostly familiar, Anglican rather than Catholic, but the promises, the expectations still tugged at your soul. Could you be a good example, what did your life represent? You had done very well at avoiding existential angst despite everything the year had thrown at you, but here in the church, surrounded by the cold stone, breathing out their distilled past memories, here, somehow you couldn’t still your thoughts. You almost raced out into the sunlight when the service ended, every dark thought burning away as the sun warmed you. You claimed the baby for a moment, his weight in your arms, the soft, milk warmth of him, nestled against you, calming you. A barrage of snaps, and everyone took their turn to claim the baby, he was astonishingly good natured, all smiles, and then he threw up over the man you didn’t know, and everyone laughed. You watched him longer than was strictly polite, his laughter lighting up his eyes, although you couldn’t quite decide on their colour, blue, maybe green, was that a hint of gold (stop looking), but you rather liked the way they twinkled.

No formal celebration, back to Nick and Claudia’s, drinks, food, conversation. You were introduced to the man, Malcolm...something..., the woman, Caroline, who proved to be unrelentingly dynamic and monopolised you for the next 45 minutes to the exclusion of anyone and everything. You finally managed to excuse yourself to go to the loo, you fretted for a moment that she was going to accompany you, wow, she was intense, you hadn’t been sure she was going to let you have your arm back, she had gripped you firmly by the elbow when you started talking and hadn’t let go. You applauded purposeful and intense, but wow, she was a complete stranger and you now knew more about her than some friends you had, had for 30 years.

You wandered upstairs to where you knew there was a guest bathroom. You passed Claudia nursing Noah. She beckoned to you, you mouthed back you were going to the loo, you laughed as you realised there really weren’t suitable ways to mime that. 

You went and sat with her, you couldn’t take more Caroline, not yet anyway. Spending time with Claudia and Noah was entirely valid and needed no excusing.

Claudia reached a hand to you, placed it on your knee, looked into your eyes and said the dreaded words.

“How are you? Really?”

“Still at the point where I don’t talk about it. I feel so naive, I really, really didn’t see this coming.”

“Oh honey, no one should expect that their husband turns out to be a lying, cheating, heartbreaking, cockwomble.”

You snorted. Only Claudia could say that and make you laugh. Only Claudia wouldn’t overwhelm you with sincerity and then spout utter bullshit. She had your back, she always had.

“We need to fix you up, its been almost a year, you need to move on. I promise that was the last cliché. Well, when I say move on, obviously after we kill him. I was thinking of taking a rusty spoon to his balls and leaving him to bleed out? Obviously I’d need tongs as there’s no way I’m touching him, and restraints, but nothing to drug him, I want him to feel the pain....not that I’ve spent any time reflecting on this. But, damn girl, no one gets to do what he did to a friend of mine, and expect to get away with it. No one gets to hurt you.”

You couldn’t cry, you didn’t cry, you hadn’t cried, but damn, Claudia had you as close to sobbing as anyone. You chose laughter instead.

 

Out of the corner of your eye you could see something reflected in the mirror over Claudia’s shoulder. You were listening, but you realised that you were watching the man, Malcolm, changing his shirt, it was surprisingly compelling. Stray beams of sunlight were dappling his skin, which, to be honest was a very northern shade of grey, he wasn’t muscular, and the hair on his chest was sparse, and you didn’t find yourself following the line of hair downwards. Must be the cut of the fabric of the trousers but you swallowed at what you appeared to see. You didn’t run the tip of your tongue over your lips. You kept nodding and making appropriate noises to Claudia. He was wiry, no hint of flab. His hands. You might have sighed. His fingers were mesmerising, long, an artists hands. You definitely didn’t consider what they would feel like on your skin, and you didn’t shiver. You made no further pretence of listening as you watched him fiddle with his cufflinks, as you watched him fasten the buttons, as you watched him undo the belt of his trousers and tuck his shirt in. You laughed with him as he realised his tie had met the same fate as he shirt, as he threw it to the side and unfastened his collar. He looked up, and for a moment your eyes met in the mirror, he quirked one eyebrow at you, and you hastily looked down, you were far, far too grown up to blush.

Claudia you realised was staring at you, you said nothing. She was laughing.

“So....That’s better, that’s more like it. So the plan is, we work on airtight alibis, we kill him, and then we find you a toy boy to fuck back to happiness?”

What had you been talking about, who were you killing? A blissful few seconds of a complete absence of memory. A momentary pang, should you be swearing in front of Noah?

“I am not fucking anyone, possibly ever, or I’m going back to women.”

Claudia raised her eyebrows, and stared.

“Don’t start, don’t even...don’t pretend you’ve forgotten.”

Only Claudia could tease you like this, make you think that she was being serious. She couldn’t hold her expression of incredulity for long and collapsed into laughter so all encompassing, that tears rolled down her cheeks. She only pulled herself together as Noah began to wave his arms in protest, his little fists adorably balled, his face frowning with concentration.

“So, does Nick know?”

“Yes, no, yes....well, not that it was you.”

You smiled at the memories, at the times you’d shared, maybe now was a good time to swear off men for good. You could hear footsteps descending the stairs. With that Claudia touched your knee to pull your attention back.

“So, not a toy boy, maybe someone a little more mature? And, really, don’t begin to think I didn’t notice you checking him out?”

“Who?”

“Malcolm?”

“Who?” Maybe you could fool her, just maybe. Fat chance.

“God-parent number 2. The man you’ve been watching change his shirt, the whole time you’ve been pretending to listen to me...honey, there is hope for you yet.”

Laughing , you closed your eyes, you told her to shut up, to just shut up, and kept laughing. You didn’t share what you were replaying in your head.


	3. 10 days, 37 hours, 1 MP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, what would a Malcolm story be without Malcolm?
> 
> Malcolm pov, planes, airports, anger
> 
> plot and stuff (some one really write these for me)
> 
> Next chp should be up today, again Malcolm pov, and er, rather er, smutty and stuff

10 fucking days in Japan. 

10 fucking days babysitting Baldymorte and the PM. 

10 fucking days away from her. 

10 days of no fucking. 

He ran his hand over his face, feeling the stubble prickle under his fingers, feeling the grit in his eyes, tasting the fur on his teeth. He wrenched his tie off, reached for his glasses and re-read the document in front of him for the 9th time. 13 hours and they would land back in London. 13 hours of paperwork and he was handing everything over to Jamie for 3 days, unless the world ended, if it did, then, and only then would he go into the office. 

He refused to fly first class, for no other reason than he couldn’t listen to another word from anyone, and he would quite possibly snap and stab Baldy if he heard his penetrating and symphonic snores one more time. How the fuck had he had to share a room with that fucker, someone’s balls were going to be stapled to the flag pole outside Number 10 when he returned. One night, and he might, possibly, just, after several months, maybe have been able to consider that it could be funny, but every night of the fucking trip? If it was Jamie, he was going to disembowel him. He had tried everything he could think of to get another room, but no, 10 nights of Baldy, 10 nights he couldn’t erase from his memory, 10 nights he would never get back. 10 fucking nights when he couldn’t phone her and actually talk to her. 10 nights of listening to Baldy phone his fucking wife, all those words he could never unhear. Fuck, 10 days, and he was considering fucking therapy.

10 fucking days of industrialists, politicians, foreign press, trade deals, glad handing, hospitality (fucking hospitality, could everyone he was with just fucking drink on their own fucking time, not his.) Don’t get him started on what you shouldn’t even begin to think about doing with geishas. 

It was quite simple, everyone he worked with, worked for, was a brainless cunt, but even then, their stupidity was breathtaking. There were some bath house photos (some of them he wished he could unsee, was brain bleach a thing?) that he had simply no idea how he kept out of the press. He may have given his translator a coronary. He ensured that the man was gifted a box of finest whisky. He had just about grasped the concept of tsumaranai mon when presenting gifts, using both hands, privacy, truly extravagant wrapping, but attempting to corral everyone into appropriate cultural responses at all times may finally have pushed his blood pressure into orbit. How he covered for what Baldy had actually said to the Emperor’s wife, he had no idea. For one moment it was possible that he was in possession of demonic powers, he couldn’t countenance that angels watched over him. At least the PM hadn’t thrown up over the Japanese Prime Minister, but comparing him to Bush was hardly a win, it was the equivalent of winning in a fucking toddler’s egg and spoon race.

Somehow he controlled what stories appeared in the press, even online, made sure the speeches in front of the cameras were coherent, informative, not fucking rubbish that could be spewed by a sock puppet on acid.

He wasn’t sure he’d slept, there had been food, an appalling lack of coffee and his temper had shredded by day 3.

He had allowed himself 4 utterly innocuous texts, nothing that anyone could possibly misconstrue, or imply anything from. He wanted to hear her voice, he wanted to wrap himself in her, he needed to fucking pull himself together. He still wasn’t sure what they were to each other, what they could be, but he wanted more. 10 days without her and he was craving her, just to be with her, nothing more, oh he really had lost it, he wanted to be buried balls deep in her every excruciating fucking moment of every fucking day. 10 days without her – he was going insane. Baldy in a room with him and he couldn’t even fucking wank. He was stretched tighter than the elastic on a whore’s knickers.

He shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat, for one brief, glorious moment he considered taking himself back to the fucking flying coffins, that were sometimes called toilets and taking care of himself. He knew it wasn’t an option and he distracted himself by trying to remember the name of the MP who had lacked similar wisdom and hadn’t even managed to fucking do his zip up again after. Full frontal at an old people’s home, yeah, that definitely worked to dampen his libido. It was that or replaying the bath house images through his head.

Day 8, he found the perfect gift. He listened when everyone else seemed to stop, intelligence, information, that was where his power lay, he soaked up everything. Hidden amongst everything he never needed to know, he had found the perfect gift for her. He didn’t consider what he had spent, simply that it was perfect. The remainder of the trip in between the fuck ups and the chaos he tried to think of a way where he could give her the gift and tell her the story, the gift was nothing without the story. She’d been to Japan, maybe he didn’t need to say anything, he just needed to see her.

 

But, what were they to each other? 

She was going to be gone in days, home to her family for the holidays, he children, her fucking ex, he had never felt quite such visceral hatred for a man he had never met. He was in awe of the balance she some how maintained, in the middle of work, in the middle of personal angst, in the middle of whatever shit storm was blowing round her, somehow she managed to be a mum. Not just that, she cared for, she loved her family, and he could see how much they loved her. Messages from her own “mom”, from the kids, a weekly deluge of texts, Skype, care packages (hideous “candy” that she claimed was better than anything in the UK, probably their one argument, that neither of them would back down over) – no matter the sleep she lost, no matter the personal cost to her, no matter the lack of time for her – she was always a great mum. And she wouldn’t hear it, all she could see was that she wasn’t there, when one kid was in trouble at school, when there were coughs and sniffles, when there were missed games. Fuck she got up at god knows o’clock to say goodnight to her little one, chastising herself she wasn’t there to tuck her in. Then there was the night when she’d Skyped watching some ridiculous tv programme, with a man she insisted looked like an older version of him, and had he consider letting his hair grow a little longer? As if he’d fucking do that, and then she’d skimmed her fingers through his scant curls, pressed her nails into his scalp and he had been prepared to reconsider anything. The look she’d given him, her hunger for him. Why would someone like her, want a sad, bitter, burnt out, fucker like him?

He tried to tell himself he didn’t care, it didn’t matter how short the time was that they had together. Tried telling himself that what they had was enough. He could almost believe his own lies. Almost believe his own spin.

11 hours remaining. He worked, that was his one constant. He didn’t sleep.

...........................................................

 

What did the cunt think he was doing? Did he not listen? Did he not read? Was he certifiable? There was no fucking way that anyone could think that, that was something you could put in your luggage and bring through an airport, diplomatic bullshit or no. He wished the airport dogs lacked discipline and simply ripped the useless waste of fucking skin apart and left a small heap of unidentifiable bits that could be disposed of with a dust pan and brush...no...nothing was ever that simple. Plans of handing straight over to Jamie, gone. 

Jamie would run everything back at base, Malcolm would see what he could salvage here. There was no way of keeping this out of the press, the camera crews were all ready circling, they could smell blood, they knew this was big, they knew this was tasty, he could see their smirks, and he, he was mostly flailing helplessly in a whirlpool of shit.

He wasn’t going to get home to her any time soon. That was what he thought, he thought of her as home...he couldn’t define what that thought did to him. He wasn’t sure he knew how to feel anything other than pain.

Pain, anger, fury, incandescent rage. 

Somehow he secured a room in the airport, away from the gaze of everyone, kept the MP there, worked his phones, his tablet, tried to think of anything, any angle, any wiggle room, anything. Fuck, he was too tired, he was so over this, he had no energy to even begin to care.

A sad excuse for a formerly decent human being stood in front of him, a man who had pressed the self destruct button on his own life. How Malcolm longed for something as simple as public indecency...this, this, there was no way back, nothing he could spin, no skeletons he could trade. He was too appalled to even shout at the man.

The only option was total honesty, let the man fall on his sword and put as much distance between everyone else and the events as possible. 

There simply was no other way. 

He let the man phone his family, set up another room for him to face the press, coached him on what to say, give him some way to come back to some semblance of life sometime in the future, or at least let him believe that lie for a few more days. He dragged a fresh shirt from somewhere, a razor (maybe cutting his throat would be quicker?), forced the man to take a shower and at least attempt to look like someone who was still mostly human. 

He persuaded the airport authorities, the police, to wait, to stay out of sight, to stay off camera, to give the man that (not him, his family, his kids didn’t need to watch him arrested as they ate their tea, it was going to be hard enough on them, 9, 7 and 3 if his memory served him adequately, their mum a decent, hard working woman. Fuck even if she was fucking vile, no one deserved to find out who they’d married like this, he would do everything he could to help her and the bairns). 

There was no way to avoid arrest, there no way to avoid prosecution. This was going to run for days, for months, the story revisited over and over and over again. Fuck, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t survive in this slurry of human sewage, he had to get out. He allowed himself to vent all his anger on the PM who requested that they see whatever other bad news stories they could bury whilst no one was looking. He left Jamie to do that, he didn’t have the heart or energy for it.

He had been up for 37 hours straight, he didn’t know what time of day it was, his shirt itched, his skin crawled, he had enough stubble to qualify as a beard and he wanted to take his eyes out and leave them in a bottle of Optrex for a couple of weeks. He looked at his phone, he looked at the tablet. 

He turned everything off.

He grabbed his coat, checked he still had his own passport, checked he still had his own keys. He would have gladly abandoned his own luggage to a controlled explosion, but he remembered the gift. That, he wanted. He started his search, his battle with bureaucracy to reclaim his luggage. 

When he let himself into his house, pushed past the junk mail piled up behind the door, he wasn’t sure if it was dusk or dawn.

He dropped everything. 

He had to see her. 

Nothing else mattered.


	4. Shower and coffee, no shave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is getting longer....
> 
> Malcolm is quite tired, Malcolm has ...er.... a shower....Malcolm buys coffee....
> 
> (I hate summaries)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write faster with comments! Please
> 
> Hate this - tell me
> 
> Love this - tell me
> 
> Really love this - please share

Morning, almost certainly. 

He’d showered, trying to scour the flesh from his body, excoriating himself in punishment for the last 24 hours. 

He couldn’t have done anything, and still he felt responsible.

He blasted the water, alternately freezing then scalding until he felt he’d regained a shred of control. Control over showering, was that it, was that the scope of his management skills now? Fuck’s sake, he was maudlin, he was miserable, he was fucking exhausted and he knew that didn’t make for calm, rational, reflection. He threw something, there was a satisfying smash, reflecting he was probably now going to have to walk over a bathroom floor covered in broken glass, he didn’t care. He wasn’t fucking 12, throwing things was not a solution. It was, however, inordinately satisfying.

Think about her, the only still point, the only good thing, the only thing not blighted by the leprous, scabrous, plague of his job. 

Thinking of her, he finally allowed one hand to drift lower, to slide over his stomach, to touch himself, to brace himself against the shower wall, to be lost in thoughts of her, to chase the peace and release he hadn’t found for more than 10 days. 

He didn’t let go, he never let go, control was everything, but she was something else, she did something to him, made him better, less poisoned, more whole.

Had he told her? Had he said to her, what she meant to him?

The shower drowned the sounds he was making, and he considered just letting his hand blur, just chasing the moment as quickly as he could. But her place in his head meant that wasn’t enough. He slowed down, he allowed his fingers to drag and tease, his thumb to swipe, his hand to dip beneath his balls and caress the infinitely sensitive skin. And his thoughts filled with her, the sounds she would make if she was here with him, the image of the water cascading over her skin, the warmth of her smile, the feel of her mouth against his, nipping against him, sucking and trailing a path of her imagining over his flesh. The tension built in this thighs, his fucking knees shook, but he made the moment last, keeping the image of her, here with him, not alone, not lonely, wrapped safe and warm in her arms, safe in her love. Fuck, he was so far beyond tired, he wanted to lose himself in her and sleep for a week. His mind full of the perfection of her breasts, the self deprecating comments she made about her stomach, he could spend a lifetime pressing kisses just there, following each stretch mark, everything that made her a woman in his eyes. The most beautiful woman he had ever set his eyes on, and she would hear none of it. He thought of her there with him, her mouth on his, her lips and tongue caressing him, the ecstasy of her fingernails. It wasn’t enough, but it was sufficient, it took everything Malcolm had not to slump against the wall, to slide to the floor. Fuck, he missed her.

He dressed, dispensing with a suit and tie, finding something in his wardrobe he couldn’t remember he even owned. He didn’t shave. It was far too fucking cold. He put on a fleece, he wrapped a scarf round his neck, put on his winter coat. Fucking weather, he scowled, it suited his mood.

He turned on the Radio to hear John Humphrey’s talking about the story he didn’t want to hear. 

He turned it off.

He tried to remember if it was Friday. 

He should sleep, that wasn’t going to happen, but he should. There was something he wanted far more than rest. He knew where he would catch her, even for a moment, ask her over, cook for her, invite her to stay, try and find the words for everything he wanted to say. She would probably have to work, the weekend meaning as little to her work as it did to his. He was too fucking old, he was too fucking nervous.

He didn’t want to fuck this up. 

He wasn’t the sort of man that was granted chances like these, he didn’t deserve this.

He didn’t want to fuck this up.

He swore at every news hoarding he passed, every paper seller, every newsagent. There appeared to be no other news in the world. Fuck. Stupid, fucking cunt...he was not mopping this up, he was not dealing with the fall out of this, he was not making this better, he was not polluting his soul anymore. Not that he had a soul left, how long ago had it shrivelled and died? How long ago had he sold it in a failed Faustian pact? What had he gained, for the price he’d paid? No friends, no family, no children, no future. Fuck. 

Don’t let him fuck this up.

He walked to the coffee shop. He contemplated something with as many shots as it was possible to get in whatever container they were calling large (bucket?), sneering at the seasonal things. Since when was Christmas a fucking swear word, it was not fucking “Happy Holidays”! Fucking political correctness, gone fucking insane. He’d long since sweet talked the barista into allowing him a trenta, and not for something iced. Iced? Fucking insane, coffee should only be fucking scalding, fucking strong and fucking black. It should not have gingerbread in it,gingerbread with it was fucking fine, in, fucking wrong. He should eat something. He wasn’t sure if the nausea he felt was because it was so long since he’d eaten, or the events of the last day. His hand hovered over a skinny muffin, he could always feed it to the gangs of mutant squirrels that operated in all the London parks. He went for a latte (he ignored the contradiction), no flavourings (weird synthetic shite, unless he walked another couple of miles) but espresso for her, espresso, the one thing they couldn’t fuck up, espresso that she loved, espresso that she could rhapsody over the crema of. He would watch the very tip of her tongue flicker over her upper lip, catching and savouring every drop and he would allow himself to imagine her tongue on him, again.

He knew which park she favoured, he looked at his watch, which was no fucking help. She had once asked him to run with her...she didn’t know him that well then, he compromised on joining her for an occasional swim – but there were never enough hours in the day. Finally he saw her, hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, a hodge podge of running clothes, earphones blocking out the world around her. She stopped, her back to him, rummaging in her pocket. He was furious, watching her pull out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, if he hadn’t given in and started smoking again, she wasn’t fucking going to. What had tipped her over, what had been so bad in the time he’d been gone, what had happened? He realised his heart was lurching in his chest, he was consumed by worry for her (he was consumed with love for her). He closed the distance between them and snatched the offending cigarette from her mouth, ground it under foot with unnecessarily determined zeal. She turned on him, furious, ready to face down whoever had invaded her space. Ever heedless of her own safety, he loved her fierceness. Just managing to dodge her upraised arm, he saved the coffee. He handed her hers, hoping that caffeine would go some way to placating her. She wasn’t just angry he realised, her eyes were rimmed with red. Fuck whoever had made her cry, fuck whoever had hurt her. In that moment he didn’t care where they were, he pulled her into his arms and held her, he just wanted to take her pain away. 

“Malcolm.”

His name muffled against his chest. He released his fierce embrace, he brushed a stray strand of hair from her brow, back behind her ear. He kissed her, one delicate brush of his lips against hers, the palm of his hand resting against her face, cupping her cheek. Then he forced himself to step back, his hands to be back by his sides. She stepped forward, she grabbed the lapels of his coat, she pulled him down into a bruising kiss and he gladly enfolded her in his embrace again. He forgot about the park, he forgot about the weather, he lost himself in her. He felt her relinquish his mouth and he knew he whimpered, he may have moaned her name, he felt her drop back from standing on tip toe and his body mourned the loss of her pressed against him, her hands fell away from his coat and he reached out and grabbed one, entwining his fingers with hers.

“Missed you.”

And he wasn’t sure which one of them said it.

He could see she didn’t want to, but she glanced at her watch, ever conscious of the time, ever aware that all their moments were stolen from an implacable world. He managed to stammer out his invite for dinner (what the fuck was wrong with him?), everything else he wanted to say could wait. She agreed but she was going to be late, so late, there was something big at work (both of them bound by secrecy), there was no end to the working day ‘til it was done, she would text him, when she could, if she could. She turned away, about to race off, turned back and snatched another kiss, leaving him breathless, leaving his arms empty, leaving his heart aching. It would have to be enough, it would have to sustain him. Somewhere in his head, the infinitely snide side of his psyche chided and mocked him, for once, he didn’t listen. 

He should sleep. 

He didn’t. 

He shopped, he cleaned, he almost bought flowers. He devised a menu and then berated himself for buying veal, what the fuck was he thinking? She was vegetarian, she had been vegetarian the entire time he had known her, why the fuck would he think of cooking her veal? He shopped again. Things they could eat with their fingers, food that was about taste and sharing and them. (He had to stop watching cookery shows, he was spouting drivel.) He made fresh pasta, for no other reason than she loved it, and the action of measuring, of kneading, of shaping, of cutting, soothed him. Something so far removed from work it allowed the world to fall away, he would still gut anyone who made comment, making sure to accomplish it with his artisan crafted Japanese steel knives. A slowly simmered sauce, the best wine, something with aubergines, something with breaded mozzarella, far too much food, she didn’t have to eat any of it, but he wanted to make it for her. A dessert so decadent she would scold him for spoiling her, but not too much, he remembered her telling him she had eaten it once, a treat at the end of a long day in an anonymous hotel in a far flung country and they could share...

He checked his phone, repeatedly. 

When there was finally a brief message, then, and only then he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	5. Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think the only thing I can say, is sexy times....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are my life blood? Too overblown?
> 
> No, really, I love feedback so much.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who keeps me going...
> 
> Aiming to finish this for Christmas Eve.....

Insanely late. 

Malcolm had slept, Malcolm had showered again, Malcolm had changed what he was wearing, twice. He had checked his phone at 5 minute intervals. Fuck this, he was more nervous than a 15 year old virgin on prom night. Get a fucking grip.

He re-checked the food. He re-checked the bottles of prosecco in the fridge. He seriously considered an ice bucket. For, fuck’s sake!

Another text, she wasn’t sure when she would make it, did he still want her to bother?

He screamed at the phone, of course he fucking wanted her, it didn’t matter when she arrived. He tried deep breathing. He sat on his hands for 5 minutes. He composed a text and deleted it three times. He contemplated making fresh coffee. 

Right, he could do this, he was a master of words, of communication. He deleted four more texts.

Text something, anything, don’t make her think you don’t want her to be with you. Don’t sound too desperate, don’t sound too needy, don’t drive her away. It’s a fucking text. He was arguing with himself, definitely something he couldn’t win. 

*Want you, please. No time is too late.*

His finger hovered over send. Did he delete this one too? Still as needy as fuck, but it was true. Whatever she could spare him, he would take. Fuck, it wasn’t as if he knew what time zone he was in, maybe he should text that? No, too dismissive, he wanted, no, he needed her to know how much he had missed her...

He pressed send.

He waited.

He turned the tv on and off. Fuck was there nothing that wasn’t covering the fiasco? He must have something innocuous queued?

He re-checked his phone.

*x*

He would take that.

He actually fell asleep. He never fell asleep. He didn’t sleep. He’d fallen asleep.

He sprang off the sofa, almost taking a dive over the coffee table. He raced to the door. Don’t pressure her, don’t crowd her, she’d be exhausted, she’d just want to sleep, no food, no talk, just sleep, don’t presume, don’t expect. STOP FUCKING TALKING TO YOURSELF.

He ran his hands through his hair, he took a deep breath, he opened the door.

She looked wrecked, but exultant. Whatever had happened at work, he could safely presume it had gone well. That was a definite improvement, he would take anything where she wasn’t sad, wasn’t angry.

He didn’t lean forward to kiss her, he took her coat, he took her bag. He rested a hand on her shoulder, he slid his hand down her arm, she tilted her head up to look at him and he was lost.

He dropped his head to her throat, he pressed the softest of kisses against her, drawing his nose over her warm flesh, inhaling the fragrance of her, allowing one arm to snake round her waist and pull her towards him. He felt one of her hands thread through his curls, press against him as his kisses deepened as he sought to taste more of her, re-map every inch of her.

He raised his head, his eyes meeting hers. She gave an almost imperceptible nod, her lips curling into the most captivating of smiles and it would have been rude of him to have refused that invitation. He claimed her mouth, forcing himself to go far slower than his body was demanding, he just tasted her lips with his tongue, holding himself back from plundering too soon. He occupied his hands by pushing her jacket off her shoulders, down her arms, reluctantly freeing himself from her embrace so it could fall to the floor. If he had wit or wisdom remaining, he would walk her to the sofa, lead her up the stairs, but all those distances were far too far.

He ran his hands, his fingers over every part of her he could reach, but he couldn’t leave her lips. The taste of her, the soft sounds she made, all of her, even more intoxicating than he remembered. How had he lasted 10 days without her? Don’t think about what would happen when she was gone, don’t think that, not now, not with her warm and present and in his arms. 

He kissed along her jaw, up to behind her ear, lifting her hair, sucking against her, marking her, willing himself not to bite. 

Her leg between his, moving against him, and it was his turn to groan.

He kissed back down her throat, over her collar bone, mapping every dip and hollow with his tongue and his lips, storing away each sound, each press of her body against his. His hands were fucking shaking, but he focused on slowly unfastening each of the buttons of her shirt, when all he wanted to do was rip it away, wanting, needing to feel her skin pressed against his. As he worked lower, he felt her hands on the hem of his top, her fingers slipping underneath, one hand drifting down over his stomach, the other travelling upwards, her perfect fingernails grazing his nipples, causing him to shudder against her.

This wasn’t enough, this wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to savour each moment, extend each kiss into infinity, but every cell in his body was fighting against that, urging him towards more.

Her shirt followed her jacket onto the floor. His breath stopped as he regarded her, he braced himself, one hand resting beside her head, the other tracing patterns over her soft, warm skin. So much more beautiful than his memories, the swell of her breasts held by a confection of silk and lace. He trailed his fingers over her, he pressed his lips in the most fleeting of kisses over the fabric, scented with her own perfect perfume. His hand travelled to undo the clasp on her back and he pulled the straps over her shoulders and down her arms with his teeth. He felt her smile and he grinned savagely in return. She had no idea how much he was restraining himself, the things he wanted to do to her, what she did to him. 

He stepped back and she protested, her hands reaching for him. He lifted one hand to her face, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. Helpless, that’s what he was, and he was kissing her again, drowning in her. 

His hands found the buttons of her waistband, the fiddly clasp, the zip, and he was pushing that fabric too, down to join the rest of her clothes on the floor.

She gripped the fabric of his top in her fists. She spoke for the first time, protesting that he was wearing entirely too many clothes. She forced his top, up and over and off, pressing hot, wet mouthed kisses over his skin, and he moaned.

As she explored him, he finally allowed himself to place one hand between her legs, gently pressing his fingers over the silk, over the heat, over the wetness. Stroking, the movements of his hand, matching the pressure from her leg against him. He slid down her body, kissing a path as he went, losing himself as travelled the journey he’d promised himself over her stomach, treasuring each moment. As with the straps of her bra, he used his teeth to pull her knickers down, over her hips, her knees and to the floor. Ignoring every protest, every whine, the pull of her fingers in his hair, he lifted her right foot and kissed her ankle, her instep, and he knew what she wanted him to do. She wanted him to drop her leg over his shoulder, for him to place his mouth against her, for him to lick and suck and nuzzle ‘til she fell apart, but that was for later not for now.

He allowed himself to taste her, just the most fleeting of touches, enough to frustrate, to inflame, to drive to distraction. She swore.

As he stood, he swept his arms under her arse, lifting her, causing her to squeal, to wrap her arms round his neck, her legs exactly where he wanted them, round his waist. He pressed her back firmly against the wall, not trusting himself to adequately support her. As he moved one hand to his belt, he felt one of her hands join his. Her hand dropped lower, tracing over the outline of him, feeling where his intense arousal had marked the fabric, and he had to find an unimagined place inside himself to not just buck against her. He fought his own buckle, any earlier dexterity entirely lost. He was losing a battle that he wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to win. She pulled down his zip, her fingers finding their way into his boxers, grasping the length of him, running over him in ways his mind had entirely failed to imagine or adequately remember. Astonishing him as she pushed his trousers over his hips with her foot, he sighed against her mouth as his belt clattered against the floor.

And this was enough, this was more than enough, he had held himself back from this moment for as long as his body allowed, and he was moving her hand from him, holding himself and pushing into her inch by inch, rocking her back against the wall, one hand cradling her head, keeping her mouth against his as they both gasped. Fighting himself not to lose it right then, holding himself still, he could feel the tightening in his groin, the pull in his balls, but he held on. He buried his face against her and willed a few last minutes of control. They kissed as he began to move against her, keeping his thrusts as slow and deep as he could, using the wall to allow himself to rock into her, allowing her to feel the press of him against her, allowing her to push back against him. He could feel her nails digging into one shoulder, scraping against him. He shifted slightly allowing his hips the slightest of rotations as he slid into her again, he was rewarded by her biting him, by her legs tightening around him, a glorious clenching of her around him, and he was forced to find an undreamt of point of stillness again. 

Confident in the grip of her arms and legs around him, he lifted his fingers to her lips, allowing her to suck on them. Pulling them back with an obscene pop he dropped his fingers to trace against her, to circle her, to rub against her. He could feel how close she was, feel the heat of her breath against his neck, the wanton sounds she was making and he gave in. He thrust against her as hard and as fast as his body had demanded he do from the first moment she had walked through his door. He had no breath left but still he kissed her, tasting salt on her skin and revelling in it.

So, so close. He returned his hand to her face, brushing back the strands of hair that had fallen across it, so gently tilting her chin, so her head lifted, so her eyes opened, so she looked at him. As her eyes met his, then he let go and she crashed after him.

He held her through the storm, as they both shook, as they both swore and laughed and moaned and begged for this to be eternity. 

He held her until he knew his legs had given up the battle, he lowered her so carefully to the floor. 

He kept her straddling him, holding her against the cold of the floor, of the wall, curling her body against his, her head against his chest, his lips buried in her hair.


	6. Memories of home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow, this fic....
> 
> there might just be the perfect paragraph in this one....
> 
> angst, smut, and stuff
> 
> poor broken, needy, Malcolm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will take any and all feedback....please....
> 
> Hate this, tell me (including picking up typos, people have changed gender, grown extra hands and performed gymnastics the Chinese couldn't dream of in the read throughs....)
> 
> Love this - please tell me (incoherent mumbling is just fine)
> 
> Really love this - please share

They were in bed, dinner abandoned, nothing that wouldn’t keep. He could invite her tomorrow, the next day after, the day after that...fuck, he didn’t think he could find his way back. There wasn’t a day he didn’t want her here with him.

He had barely been able to hear his own voice when he’d said “stay”...remembering to breathe, the burning in his chest, the thudding of his heart. Even softer, terrified of her answer...”please?” And he was prepared to beg, he saw himself, arms wrapped round her knees, pressed against her, begging her to stay. She had stroked his cheek with her hand, tracing the stubble, pulled him into her arms, held him against her, and still he thought she would say “no”, still he thought she would leave, head to her flat, protesting the pressures of work, an early start, Skyping the family...everything he thought stood between him and her. “For as long as I can...” He didn’t know what that meant, he was too afraid to ask, too scared that he would chase her away with the rawness of his need for her. Fuck, he needed her, he should tell her, say something, but he couldn’t.

So, they were in his bed, and he was concentrating on not holding her too closely, still wanting her, still fucking hard, trying not to clench his fists, feeling the weight of everything he hadn’t said. Everything pressing on his chest (the gift, still on the sideboard...still ungiven.) She was sleepily recounting her day, as much as she could tell him, her fingers softly brushing over his chest, through the sparse hair, over his ribs, chastising him for his thinness, wanting more of him to curl up with, until he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t ticklish. A bark of laughter, was that him? A pang when she said she hadn’t heard his laugh before, she liked his laugh...he held back the sigh, the words of justification for what his life had become, dying on his lips, bitterness in his mouth. He wanted to be the man she saw in him, had he been like that once? Could he be like that again?

He had to say something, the silence too heavy, too full. 

He recounted a conversation, a still point in time, with the translator, a moment in between, it had felt stolen then, and I wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it now. They were on the steps of a temple courtyard, sheltered from everything, for that instant just the two of them, the feeble sun providing scant warmth, but neither of them wanting to throw themselves back into the maelstrom, an unspoken agreement. The man had asked him about home, he had recalled the colour of her hair, the strands of gold, a hint of red, undisguised silver; he’d talked about her eyes, how they twinkled as she smiled, how he lost himself in them, the colours that sparked in them; the feel of her skin against his, the softness, the warmth that thawed his heart; the taste of her lips, and memory and words had failed him, all of him was empty without her there with him. The man had looked at him, and he knew he had been asking him about London, about bricks and mortar, but none of that was home, only her.

He had softly stroked her hair as he’d spoken, his lips just by her ear, his voice barely above a whisper, still not trusting his own voice to speak all the words he desperately wanted to say. And he felt her stillness, and his heart stopped...don’t let her leave. He should just have kept his fucking mouth shut, content, she was here, she was with him, she was in his bed, in the circle of his arms. He didn’t know what to do or say next, fuck, she still hadn’t said anything, he knew she wasn’t asleep. His fingers continued their soft caress, and then he felt it, she was crying, she took a deep shuddering gasp of air, and broke, sobbing, turning in his arms, holding him, burying her face against his chest.

It was the one thing he had never developed a coping strategy for, no policy statement, no Tucker Law. A crying woman. He made soft shushing sounds, his lips pressed against her hair, his hands rubbing gentle circles over her back, he hadn’t meant to hurt her, he hadn’t meant to upset her, he wanted her to forget what he said, he babbled, shushing, fighting to find something to say, anything, trying to make this better, trying to undo what he thought he’d done.

He pressed kisses against her hair, still trying to shush her, rocking her in his arms, wishing he could do anything, anything to take away the pain he thought he’d caused. She pushed back from him, and he thought that was it, and he knew his own tears were barely suppressed.

“IDIOT, you idiot.”

And she was hitting him, and he took it, taking all her fierceness, all her rage, all her anger, anything, anything at all. 

Don’t let her leave.

“IDIOT, total fucking idiot. Why did you have to say something like that? How could you do that to me? Why did you have to make me love you?”

He heard the words, he replayed the words, he sounded them out, a syllable at a time in his head. He handed her his handkerchief. She blew her nose, loudly and noisily.

She asked him to hold her, to spoon her, he would have agreed to anything. He couldn’t make his mind move beyond the words, it wasn’t him, he hadn’t hurt her, she loved him? And the rage he felt, against the man, the man who’d made her feel like this, who’d made her sob in his arms... How could anyone hurt her? How could anyone do this to her?  
She moved against him, settling herself. He had one arm wrapped round her, under her breasts, holding her close to him. He willed himself to be still. He was happy not to sleep, happy to feel her against him, happy to breathe in the fragrance of her, happy to feel the warmth of her. 

Happy that she had stayed.

But, no, she had to wriggle. She was pressed back against him and his brain was short circuiting.

There was no way he could pretend he wasn’t hard, there was no way he could pretend that he didn’t want her.

She was saying something, but his hearing had gone the way of his brain. 

He may have moaned.

Then he heard her.

“Fuck me, Malcolm.”

“Fuck me.”

He could hear her need, hear her desperation. And still he couldn’t believe she wanted him.

“Please.”

“Make me forget everything else.”

“Fuck me.”

Each sentence punctuated by her pressing back against him, by the circling of her arse against him.

He was only human.

He could feel his own arousal dripping against her. He could feel each twitch and pulse of his cock against her. The heat of her, the softness of her.

He wrestled with his conscience, did she want this? Did she want him?

He didn’t want to stop.

And his own want, his own need was screaming against any reason, any consideration. The events of earlier were but a dream, now, now, he couldn’t remember ever being this hard. But that wasn’t him...he had to ask, he had to have permission.

Her breathless yes, the whole of her pressed back against him, her moan...he needed nothing more. 

He didn’t care the sounds he was making. The moans, the whimpers, the hoarseness, the tightness in his throat.

He kissed her neck, behind her ear, everywhere his mouth could reach, his hands moving over her, over her breasts and over any part of her. He felt greedy, he tried to restrain himself, tried to hold back, hold himself still, tried to keep a shred of control. 

Anything.

And she lifted her leg over him, pressed back against him again, breathed out “please”, and he was poised, pressed against her heat, her wetness, the only place that he wanted to be, and still he held himself back, unsure, never, ever wanting to take advantage, knowing her vulnerability.

“Malcolm, fucking, fuck me? Fuck me, so I forget everything. Fuck me, so I only remember you.”

There weren’t words for the sounds he made, but somehow, he pushed into her gently, one arm, holding her hips against him, one hand ghosting over her breasts, stroking down her throat, ghosting over her stomach, holding her against him. 

The heat of her, the warmth, the tightness. He was gritting his teeth, his breath was coming in ragged gasps, he bit down on his own tongue. Somehow striving to suppress his own pleasure, his own desire, and he was sure he would scream.

All his past, nothing, nothing had prepared him for loving someone like this.

He knew he was biting her, he knew he was thrusting against her, nothing held back, no rhythm, just need, blind, desperate hunger for her.

No, no!

This wasn’t about him, this was for her, and he bit his own lip so hard he tasted blood.

He was saying her name with each gasp, proclaiming his love, saying anything he had held inside, the dam of words broken, spilling from his mouth.

He pressed himself more deeply against her, altering the angle and thrust of his hips, hitting the point of perfection within her, willing her on, willing her closer, begging for the moment to last, begging to hold on.

Fuck.

She pulled away.

And he wasn’t sure he didn’t howl.

“Kiss me.”

“Face me.”

“Fuck me.”

She rolled him onto his back, lowering herself down onto him, rocking against him, fingers entwined with his. Mouth hot and hungry against his. The taste of her tongue, the caress of her lips. The erratic circling of her hips over him, the press of her against him. The sweat pouring off both of them, his hand moving to her hair.

Too close.

Not enough.

He flipped them. This once, now, here, he needed to be in control.

What fucking control?

He pounded into her, and she arched to meet him, her mouth touching him, their breath rattling, ragged.

Pure passion.

His name on her lips, the other word he realised was yes...

He dropped his forehead against hers, his arms shuddering, his legs shaking, his mind screaming and he felt her clench against him, her nails raking against him, her cries of bliss, and he held her, and held her, and murmured words of love. 

His own cry inchoate, and he wasn’t sure he hadn’t passed out, he wasn’t sure he had ever come that hard before.

He would promise her everything, he would beg, he would plead, don’t let her leave.

He wrapped her in his arms, he held her against his chest, pulling the duvet over them. 

Don’t let her leave.


	7. Kintsugi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smutty start - romantic end...
> 
> Yes, she finally gets the gift
> 
> Back to her pov.
> 
> Will add source of quote Malcolm uses when I refind my notes from under the Christmas shopping (if you finished in August, just shuttity up)
> 
> Will be offline for a few days, but on the upside, I should then get to write for an uninterrupted period on my return - those languishing wips should receive some love *nods emphatically* and there will be the seasonal prompt fills, expect silliness with eggnogg and baubles amongst other things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I really appreciate any and all feedback - thank you
> 
> Hated this - tell me
> 
> Loved this - please tell me
> 
> Really loved this - please share

Malcolm was lying across you, one leg woven between yours, his head nestled into the crook of your shoulder, one arm tucked under your breasts holding you against him. He looked years younger, sleep smoothing the furrows, softening the lines. Only the fact he would kill you, and that you couldn’t for the life of you think where your phone might be, stopped you taking a picture. Damn him, you needed pictures of him.

The temptation to kiss him was almost overwhelming. To see his eyes open, watch him blink sleepily, revel in the smile he unfailingly greeted you with, knowing that his hands would reach for you, pulling you back into the circle of his arms, nuzzling you with an unashamed affection that he only seemed fully capable of in the morning. But, no, you wanted to let him sleep, he never slept enough. Though, looking at the clock you were astonished by the time, still, let him sleep. Get up, start work on brunch if he had anything in the fridge, don’t think about work in any other context. How did he survive on coffee, fruit, energy drinks and the probably apocryphal dismembered limbs of junior MPS that he dragged back to his office to gnaw on late at night? Not a balanced diet, not healthy and you might have taken him to task over it, and he had merely shrugged, damn him, you wanted him to take better care of himself. Again you stopped yourself, wanting to run your hand through his curls. So appealing, his close crop a little longer than usual and so gorgeously mussed from sleep. You suppressed the giggly thought “bed head”. Malcolm had made you think many things in the time you had, had together, but never before had the word adorable been more appropriate.

Concentrating on wiggling out from underneath him without waking him, you couldn’t resist glancing back over your shoulder when you had finally extricated yourself. Sometime in the night he had pulled on a pair of plaid pj bottoms, which currently weren’t doing a good job of covering his arse. You continued your battle against kissing him and pulled the duvet over him. Realising your clothes would still be on the hall floor you looked round for anything to put on. You decided on a pair of Malcolm’s blue and white striped cotton boxers, huffing slightly that he really had the most ridiculously thin hips and then reflecting it really wasn’t going to matter if you could do up the top button (you didn’t stop to reflect about the feel of the fabric against you, the thought of Malcolm against you) ...you picked out one of his favourite shirts, distracted by thoughts of him unbuttoning it, bemoaning that it smelled merely laundry fresh, without a hint of him.

The rustle of fabric behind you, tipped you off that Malcolm hadn’t managed to remain asleep. You turned to look over your shoulder and found he was already sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze astonishingly bright and alert for someone you had been certain mere seconds before had been sound asleep. You could never quite articulate what his hawk like stare did to you, the piercing quality of his gaze burning through you. He tilted his head just slightly to one side, his eyes travelling up and down your form, taking in what you were wearing. He smiled, and it was predatory. He crooked one finger and beckoned you back to him. Without hesitation you stepped back into his embrace. He yawned, reaching one hand up to rub his own hair, wrapping himself round you and burying his face against your chest. You were aware that you were held between his thighs, his legs holding yours, and this almost felt more intimate than anything else you had shared. You bent and kissed his head and he murmured something his voice lost against your breasts. You stepped back as far as his embrace would allow and he looked up at you.

You tried to tell him you were going to make breakfast, he nodded and smiled and didn’t let go.

“Not happenin darlin.”

His voice rough, his delicious brogue amplified.

“How many chances do I get tae spend a day with ye? Yeah?”

And he was pulling you down ‘til your lips met his, until his hand was sliding into your hair, until he was pulling you onto his lap, until the kiss deepened and you forgot whatever it was you’d been planning to do.

He released your lips for a second, long enough to tell you that this qualified as later. You didn’t follow his meaning at all. Then his hands were sliding over your hips. The look he gave you, his grin as he realised you were wearing his boxers, his thumbs hooking into the fabric, sliding them, dragging them downwards. His mouth following the same path, realising his intent only as he dropped to his knees. He turned you both round, you landed back on the bed with a thump, bouncing and giggling unashamedly. His hands rested on your knees and his fingers began to travel over your skin, up to your hips, tracing over all the points you were most sensitive, up and down, doing nothing except teasing, not moving to where you needed him. You worried your lower lip between your teeth, curling your toes into the carpet, willing him on. His grin was bordering on feral as he placed a series of fleeting kisses over your hips, your thighs, the inside of your knees, and you may have made a sound that equated to a whine. You felt the tip of his tongue brush over the soft skin, just on the underside of your knee, and you had no idea that you were so sensitive there, astonishing yourself by voicing an emphatic yes as he lifted your leg over his shoulder continuing to lavish attention on this new found spot, licking, nipping, kissing. Lifting your other leg over this shoulder, you crossed your ankles, pressing your heels into his back.

He laughed.

“Patience, darlin, yeah?”

Laughter rippled through him as he resumed his slow progress up your inner thigh, the sensation of his mouth, his stubble, his laughter against your skin astonishing. His thumbs rubbed circles, his fingers continuing their maddening meandering. Just as he reached where you needed him most, his head dropped back to repeat the pattern on your other leg and you squealed. Locking a hand into his hair you pulled firmly. He reached up, untangled your hand, pulled it to his mouth, placed kisses on your palm, sucking your fingers into his mouth, showing you exactly what his talented tongue could do and then biting into the flesh beneath your thumb, the pleasure just as intense as the pain. Damn him, could he not just...As the thought began to form, he lowered himself, his tongue sliding, so hot, so wet over you, teasing, probing, tasting. The noises he made, his unashamed appreciation of you, and already you were squirming beneath his touch. He still held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours and that moved you in ways you couldn’t express, such tenderness in the midst of everything he was doing to you. His lips closed over you, sucking and licking so gently, driving you beyond distraction, and he traced his nose back over the path his mouth had taken. It seemed ridiculous and wanton and wonderful, he used all of his senses to savour you. Pressing his nose back against you, he dipped his tongue into you, doing things to you that you weren’t sure were possible. Your grip on his hand tightened, shaking, pulling him closer, the intensity so, so close to overwhelming you. His fingers replaced his tongue, and they curved within you, sliding, pushing, touching against just where you needed, and he was holding you, just there, just on the edge of where you needed to be. The language you used, the endearments, the inarticulate cries and finally his mouth closed back over you, pulling you between his lips and sucking without pause until you fell, ‘til you didn’t remember where you were, ‘til you didn’t remember your own name, you only wanted this not to stop.

He lifted you fully onto the bed, wrapping himself in your arms, pulling the covers over you both, kissing until sleep reclaimed you.

........................................................................................................

Coffee. You could smell coffee. The rich, warm aroma dragging you from the cocoon of sleep. You turned over to tell Malcolm how amazing it smelled and realised he wasn’t next to you. You sat up, stretched, yawned and rubbed your eyes. You weren’t sure you had ever felt quite this relaxed, utterly unable to remember a day when no-one had placed demands on your time, when you had, had time just for yourself. As your eyes opened your gaze met Malcolm’s, he was sitting on the side of the bed, holding a tray laden with food, orange juice, coffee, more than enough for the two of you. Balanced on the edge of the tray, possibly the most extravagantly wrapped gift you had ever seen. Without fully thinking, you reached for the box, only to find Malcolm’s fingers tapping yours.

“Not now, later, eat first.”

You couldn’t quite work out his expression...was he nervous? The mighty Malcolm Tucker? Your heart fluttered a little within your chest and butterflies chased away all your hunger. Don’t be ridiculous you told yourself, box, yes, utterly the wrong size, calm down. 

You reached for the orange juice. Again Malcolm said “no!” He laughed at your expression. 

“Move over, let me get into the bed!”

You realised that you had commandeered the centre ground, smiling you moved to make room for Malcolm, flipping back the covers and snuggling into his side once he was settled.

“Control yourself woman...eating!”

With that he set to work on the assortment of pastries and fried food. For someone who didn’t eat he was making remarkably good progress through the food he’d set in front of you. Your stomach rumbled and that chased away your irrational fit of nerves, when had you last eaten? 

Between you, you devoured everything. Still Malcolm wouldn’t let you have the gift, he made a very exaggerated performance of stripping the bed, changing the sheets, vacuuming the crumbs. This continued until you were forced, compelled to say.

“What on earth is the matter with you?”

He actually mumbled, his eyes downcast.

“What?”

And he said it.

“I’m fucking nervous...”

His voice trailed off.

You took his hand, you dragged him back to the bed, you wrapped him in your arms and the covers, holding him against you, feeling the wild beating of his heart. You kissed him and kept kissing him until you felt him begin to calm, until you felt him stir against you and you pulled back.

“No! I’m unwrapping the box, whatever is in it, then...”

As your hand reached for the box, his hand closed over yours.

“Open it, look at it, but there is a story that goes with it.”

You still couldn’t fathom his expression.

You carefully pulled open the bow, pulling back the layers of fabric and paper, uncovering the non descript cardboard box within. Puzzling. Sliding your fingernail over the sellotape you popped the box open. The contents were nestled within further bubble wrap and then tissue paper under that. Finally, you uncovered whatever it was, you lifted the object out and sat it on the palm of your hand. It was singularly unprepossessing. You were focused on keeping your expression expectant, your eyes bright. It was a small raku bowl, black, and very obviously broken. It had been repaired and the cracks shimmered with gold. You utterly failed to grasp why Malcolm would have brought you a broken cup, and why he would be so nervous.

“You have no idea....I wasn’t sure if you would...I know you’ve travelled and worked in Japan. I thought maybe you would have heard the story....I thought perhaps I wouldn’t need to explain.”

You laid a hand on his chest, you had never known him so hesitant, so self conscious.

“Tell me.”

Still he hesitated. Placing kisses along his jaw, kissing your favourite spot just beneath his ear, you repeated.

“Tell me.”

And he told you. He told you it was Kintsugi. How it began in the 15th century when the shogun Ashikaya Yoshimasa sent a damaged Chinese tea bowl back to China to be fixed. It had returned held together with ugly metal staples. Japanese craftsmen embarked on a quest to find a new form of repair that could make a broken pot look as good as new, or better. He relaxed against you as he recounted this part of the tale, obviously comfortable with facts. He paused, suddenly hesitant again.

“Tell me.”

Pressing soft kisses against his lips until he could find it within him to speak again. The cup nestled between you, cradled in your hand, meaning far more than you could currently grasp.

“The cup once repaired is infinitely more precious, more gorgeous than when it was whole. What might be perceived as imperfections, become something created anew.”

He shrugged.

“I know I’m not saying this right. But I wanted to give you something that represented what you are to me...what you mean to me....”

His words trailed off again and you thought for a moment he’d stopped.

“ You’ve taught me to see with new eyes, to be less fearful, more hopeful, to recognise something of what you see in me, things that I’d thought were lost and broken.”

He paused again.

“I knew I wouldn’t have enough words, I copied a verse and placed it inside the cup. But this, this I can say, this I want you to know. You told me you were broken, but I only see how beautiful you are, how strong you are, how precious you are to me.”

You looked at the words on the scrap of paper.

“Allow beauty to shelter you regularly. The loveliest people are the ones who have been burnt and broken and torn at the seams, yet still send their open hearts into the world to mend with love again, and again and again. You must allow yourself to feel your life while you’re in it.” 

You fought to hold back the tears, to allow the feelings inside of you unfurl. All the things you thought he was to you, he was so much more.

You reverently wrapped the bowl within its layers, making sure it was secure within the box, you stepped from the bed and placed it safely on the dresser, making sure it couldn’t possibly fall.

You returned to the bed, to the warmth of Malcolm. You cupped his face with your hands, and said the only thing you could.

“I love you.”


	8. Storm Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I did warn you this wasn't sequential...
> 
> Malcolm thinks he's noble, in fact, he is an idiot....
> 
> There is a storm, there is an accident
> 
> Angsty, angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Craving feedback, you are all so good to me - thank you
> 
> Hated this - tell me
> 
> Loved this - please tell me
> 
> Really loved this - please share

Don’t be selfish.   
If you do not love the way her hair curls at the ends or her nose wrinkles when she laughs then let her go.   
If you don’t see her as a fucking masterpiece then let her go, because someone else will.   
Don’t be selfish.   
If you don’t love the way she sneezes or the way she dribbles the toothpaste down her chin when she brushes her teeth then let her go.   
If your heart doesn’t almost beat out of your chest when you wake up and the first thing you see is her soundly sleeping on your shoulder.   
Someone else would kill for that.   
Being with someone when you know you don’t love them is cruel.   
It’s not only cruel it’s holding them back from someone that could give them everything.   
Someone that feels waves breaking in their ribcage when they see her walk around the corner.   
Someone that has had the worst of days, but rainbows suddenly appear at the thought of her.   
Someone who hears the sound of her voice and it soothes the darkest of nightmares.   
If that is not you, let her go.   
She is wonder, she is magic, she deserves someone who believes that every single day, not just on certain days.  
— Certain Days // E.E 

 

He knew one fucking thing.

He knew he was cruel.

Two things stayed with him ever after, the rain hissing as it hit the bonnet of the car, and every fucking word of Sinatra singing “That’s life!”....no matter the years, no matter the new memories, those stayed with him, that, and he was irredeemably an idiot...that was three...

Fucking airport. 

Fucking rental car.

Fucking wrong side of the road.

Fucking weather.

No matter what he did he couldn’t tune the radio to anything other than an “oldies” station, at least the fucking sat nav worked. 

He should have booked into a motel.

He should have slept.

He shouldn’t have thought that Rembrandt would be inadequate to paint her.

He should have waited ‘til the morning.

He shouldn’t be singing along with Sinatra.

“I thought of quitting, baby, but my heart just won’t buy it. If I didn’t think it was worth a single try, why, I’d jump on a big bird then I’d fly”

He was so tired, he was laughing. Laughing was better than crying.

Six fucking months, don’t fucking back down now. 

He had fucking balls, he could fucking do this.

Couldn’t he?

She was worth more to him than ego, more than pride, more than anything.

He replayed every moment. Everything imprinted on his cortex in techicolor.

He longed for her. 

The taste of her.

The smell of her.

Her smile.

Her warmth.

Torturing himself with the memory of her lips, of her under him...fuck, he’d thought he’d made the right choice, the noble choice. 

Fuck this.

He should have held her in his arms and told her he loved her and never, ever, let go.

And he was fucking selfish, he would take one more moment, any moment, anything, other than a life without her.

He caught himself a thousand times a day, turning, about to tell her something. And she wasn’t there and his heart died and his life turned to ashes over and over again. Burning himself for the chance of her being there with him.

Fuck, was the weather always like this? Hailstones pelted the car so relentlessly he couldn’t hear the radio. Should he pull over? Were the roads usually this quiet? Was this normal? He had no fucking idea.

 

He wasn’t every entirely sure how he lost control of the car. 

One moment he was driving.

One moment the car was sliding across the surface of the road.

One moment he was trying to wrest control of the steering.

One moment all he could see was her face.

One moment and the car hit the central reservation.

One moment and he prayed the car would stop.

One moment when he remembered her hands on him. 

The soft caress of her lips.

Part of him wanted to just stop, just stay in that moment, nothing else.

One moment and gravity stopped and his stomach lurched and everything flipped and there was burning and acid and pain and confusion.

Long moments when he remembered nothing, understood nothing. 

The taste of bile in his mouth. 

Something dripping.

The memory of her hair.

The acrid smell.

Fighting with the seat belt, kicking the door open, falling out into...

He wasn’t sure if this was hell. 

Remembering her, not with her. 

Agony. 

Flames.

The curve of her smile.

This had to be hell.

 

The wind howled round him, the rain ripped into him...sense had left him. When the story was told, every year, no mention was made of his skull fracture, no mention was made of the bleed. No, when the story was told, he was simply an idiot. No cut, no blood flowing into his eyes. No, an idiot who didn’t wait for the emergency services...

 

He stood in the road, in the storm, he’d done the right thing? Hadn’t he? He’d made the right choice?

And his heart thundered in his chest at the memory of her.

He stood there. His head rolling on his shoulders. Walk the few remaining miles to her? Sit down in the road and wait? Wait for whatever...

He was cold.

It was raining.

Walking was better than standing still.

He turned the collar of his coat up. He was mostly certain he knew where he was headed.

She was his compass.

She was home.

She was everything he longed for.

The memory of her, nuzzled against his shoulder, pressed against him, that memory kept him warm.

 

He remembered his last orgasm. He remembered how his fingertips had felt. He thought he could remember every single cell in his body. He remembered his nose pressed against her throat He was sure he could remember the smell of her. He remembered saying her name over an over again. And that couldn’t have been the last time. That couldn’t have been it, that couldn’t have been the last time. There had to be more, there had to be more of them.

It didn’t count if he cried in the rain.

No one could hear his howls over the wind.

Just to see her, just to touch her, just to hold her one more time in his arms.

He couldn’t bear it.

He would kill for one moment more with her.

He never thought he was killing himself.

He walked.

The pain meant nothing.

The hail meant nothing.

He would sacrifice every year left to him to see her brush her teeth one last time.

All he could see was her face when he’d told her, told her to fucking fuck off. All the sewage that had spewed from his mouth. And, he’d thought it was the right thing, and he’d kept kidding himself, every day, every minute, every hour, every month, every week. Not a second when he didn’t think of her. It had been the right thing to do, he’d kept telling himself that, until there was nothing left.

“Many times I thought of quitting, baby, but my heart won’t buy it...”

 

He had no right to any expectations, he had no right to anything, he had told her to fuck off. He just needed to see her, to know she was ok, know she was safe, know she was happy. Know he had done the right thing.

Her door.

And he didn’t think how he looked.

He was past consideration.

Past caring.

Past conscious thought.

 

He knocked.

She opened the door.

She looked amazing

Breathtaking

Glowing.

More beautiful than any memory, any dream. He had left it too fucking late, and if his heart hadn’t already broken, now, it crumbled into dust.

She was definitely okay, and he had to presume she was happy. He wasn’t going to ask, he wasn’t going to say anything, he shouldn’t have come, he was idiot, the one thing he could do was leave, and he did. 

“But if there is nothing shaking come July, I’m gonna roll myself up in a big ball, and die.”

He’d fucked it up, he’d waited too long.

He turned on his heel.

He believed every single day.

He didn’t put his hands out, he didn’t remember anything as the ground rushed up to meet him.


	9. Whisht

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm goes "home" for Christmas. Its very cold, you are never too old to be a teenager even if you are Malcolm Tucker, especially if you have to sleep on the sofa.
> 
> So, to contrast with the last chapter of angst, something much lighter, smuttier and fluffier - this of course took place 12 months before the other...
> 
> It was part of a gigantic chapter, but needed to break things down again....a lot more angst to come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I admit it, this fic could be taking over, but its Malcolm...*sigh*
> 
> As always, thank you for the continued hits, kudos and especially comments
> 
> Hated this - please tell me
> 
> Loved this - please tell me
> 
> Really loved this - please share

Malcolm somehow refrained from uttering a very unmanly scream as a hand snaked under the meagre blankets covering him on the sofa. The appendage was icy, he was little warmer and he could have sworn until he had jerked awake, that he’d been far too fucking cold to sleep. He bit his lip, holding back on the expletives, at 50, still not prepared to face a leathering from his Mam.

A mouth pressed against his ear – that at least was hot. (Don’t let it be his fucking sister.)

“Malcolm, I’m fucking freezing.”

“Shhh!!!! And for fuck’s sake, don’t swear! My Mam’s hearings sharper than a bats. She’ll skelp the pair of us.”

“We’re not 12. You’re frozen, I’m frozen, come and share my bed, or at least let me share the sofa. This is madness. When you said it would be cold, I had no idea. I’m wearing all my clothes, you’ve got your coat over you – we’d be warmer in your car.”

“Shhhh!!!!”

She was sitting next to him on the sofa and fuck, even in these few seconds he already felt warmer. She slid the one hand she’d already insinuated under the covers, much lower. He hissed.

“For fuck’s sake! Yes, I get it, your hands are fucking cold, have mercy on me!”

“Wasn’t quite the response I was hoping for.”

She nipped his earlobe, her breath gloriously warm. He shifted on the sofa, turning into her embrace.

“Fuck, we can’t. We really can’t! The walls, they are like fucking tissue paper!”

“You should have said we were sharing a room when your Mam asked if I was staying.”

She was pressed against him on the sofa now, having wormed her way under the coat and blanket. As delicious warmth crept back into his limbs, he felt his concentration, will power and reason diminishing. Her lips tracing the outline of his ear and pressing kisses down his throat wasn’t helping either. He dismissed the old adage that no man can think with two heads at once. 

Capturing her hands, he managed to mutter.

“Whisht!”

“Oh well....”

And with that, she slid back from under the covers. He groaned.

“You are going to fucking kill me, and then me Mam will kill the pair of us. I did tell you just how rigidly, staunchly, unswervingly Catholic she is?”

Pressing a kiss to the tip of his still freezing nose, she left the room. Fuck it, even in the scant illumination he could see she didn’t fucking walk, she fucking “sashayed.”

It was obviously the fucking cold that had addled his brain. He actually sat and deliberated what to do next. Drag her to the car and drive around ‘til they found any hotel that would take them in the early hours of Christmas morning? Just drag her to the car, even if it was minus fucking something, the two of them in the car had to be warmer than anywhere in this fucking house and get fucking arrested, brilliant. Follow her and chance the bed that was too narrow to even qualify as single and too short for anyone taller than a Munchkin (as he knew to his bitter cost) and it squeaked if you breathed.

Sharing warmth and blankets was definitely better than this – he could manoeuvre the ridiculously inadequate mattress onto the floor, they could be quiet, they could be still, he could return to the sofa before anyone else was up. He could spend a night wrapped in her arms and be strong willed and self controlled. He didn’t have to think about the wonderful way she smelled or how the soft heat of her felt against him, or how her curves moulded to his, the memory of her lips. He didn’t have to think about any of those things, he knew he was already dizzy with want, his hands itching to touch her, to feel her under him. He could go back to sleep, he hadn’t thought it was possible before, he could, the insistent throbbing, the constricting pressure of layers of clothing, all highlighted the lie. 

He cursed through his entire, extensive, colourful compendium of expletives, snatched his blanket, pillow and coat and stalked after her. 

Crossing the passage to the back bedroom (little more than a cupboard) without running into anyone, opened the door, remembering the trick of it, to stop the penetrating screech. He wondered how she’d managed it, and remembered her teenaged tales of sneaking out without getting caught. He cursed the space inside the room, he wasn’t sure if even the floor was wide or long enough for the two of them and the fucking draught could kill. 

It was his turn to put his hand on her shoulder, press his mouth to her ear. Her turn to swat at his hand and tell him.

“Shh, sleeping.”

He knew that was a fucking lie too, the space and the constraints placed upon them, wouldn’t allow him to be anywhere near as playful as he wished. He realised he was growling and she had turned and placed a hand on his chest. And he was heedless of any noise, he was kissing her hungrily, needily, far, far too fucking long since they had done this. Fuck everything else, fuck family, fucking double fuck work, he was going to carve out time for the two of them to spend together and not one of his plans involved leaving bed. 

He rested his forehead against hers, his breathing already ragged.

“Half the fucking street can probably hear us. We can fucking snuggle.” 

He couldn’t quite believe that word had crossed his lips.

“That’s fucking it.”

She groaned, and the sound did things to him he hadn’t imagined. Fists that had been locked in his shirt, moved to his hair, pulling him, moving him, so she could recapture his lips. He could fight her easily, he revised that in his head, he knew how feisty she was, if he absolutely had to, he could overpower her... Her tongue was in his mouth, massaging against his, sucking on him and he moaned too, the memories of all the things her mouth could do sending jolts of arousal through him.

“We can’t make any fucking noise!”

“Well, let’s just see how quiet you can be then?”

He could hear the challenge in her voice. He was already whimpering under her touch, he was fucking doomed.

Her nimble fingers swiftly unbuttoned his shirt, pressing hot wet kisses down his chest, the icy air warring with the searing heat of her touch, intensifying everything he felt. He had never been convinced that his nipples were remotely sensitive, merely redundant biology, but the things she did with her tongue, with her teeth, he was muffling the sounds he was making with his fist.

Her hands found his belt, but did nothing, and he felt her fingers skim over him, tracing his rigid outline with the ghost of a touch, he felt no shame, only want as he raised his hips, chasing her caress. Her hand was against his inner thigh, rubbing circles no where near where he wanted and her hand lifted, cupping his balls, the feeling too much and no where near enough.

He could put his mouth to far better use than trying not to moan. He pulled her to him, winding his hand in her silken hair, kissing her, nose and teeth barely missing, pressing his body hard into hers. Suddenly he wasn’t merely warm, he was hot, they were both wearing far too many clothes. He needed to feel her skin against his. 

He hadn’t thought he’d been listening to anything other than the glorious sounds they were both making, but he stilled and stiffened as he heard the click of a door, the flick of a light switch, footsteps, and the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, whooshed from his lungs when he heard water running in the bathroom. He tried hard not to giggle, when was the last time? Not here, wherever they’d been living when he was 17, the fucking awful tower block and he’d snuck a girl in, utterly fucking reckless, as you only can be at that age, his Mam between men. The excitement, the thrill, the fear, were just the same, save now, he knew what he was fucking doing. 

Her head was pressed against his shoulder, her whole body convulsing with suppressed laughter. Her hands ghosting over him again, and he tried to hold her still, waiting for the sounds to play in reverse, waiting for the house to still around them again. 

The sudden sound of his zip, sliding down so slowly, impossibly, astonishingly loud. His head fell back, the tip of his tongue pressed against his top lip, his toes curling as she retraced her path down his body. She paused, her hands resting on his thighs. He wanted, and he couldn’t think what, but he wanted, he needed, she was driving him insane. Her mouth pressed against him, through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he was fighting every instinct, fists buried in the sheets, holding himself still. He wanted her so badly. He gave thanks when she finally took hold of him, thankful that her hands were now warm, thankful she was touching him where he craved. Her hands freeing him from his underwear, her hands stroking over the length of him, dipping to caress his balls, tracing each undulation. His teeth were clenched so hard, his jaw ached. Her mouth closed over him, so hot, so, so wet, and he bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He moved his hands to grip the headboard behind him, knowing the sheets would rip in his grasp. The tip of her tongue was teasing the perfect spot, and she was sucking him, and pulling back and blowing a hot breath over the head.

In a voice he didn’t recognise, he found himself saying.

“STOP, stop, fucking stop, please.”

She rested her head against his chest, holding him ‘til he found some equilibrium, his heart thudding so hard, that, that had to be heard if nothing else was.

He didn’t care about anything else he had said, anything else he had decided. He kissed her, sucking her lip between his, moaning into her mouth. Kissing along her jaw, down her throat, and he knew that everything he wanted it, all of it, some of it would have to wait, he was far too far gone.

He raised himself to look at her, her eyes met his, she fucking smiled. Her hand cupped his face and he rubbed himself against her palm, treasuring the moments of perfect connection in the midst of the heat of pure lust. He kissed her again, and kept kissing her, undoing her trousers, pushing them and her underwear down over her hips, feeling her kick to free herself from them. And they weren’t nearly naked enough, but for now, for here, for this moment it was perfect and ridiculous and wonderful.

He held himself over her, holding his weight off her, prolonging the moment, trying to make this last. She was grasping him, guiding him into her, and he allowed himself to move so slowly, every second an eternity of bliss. And she was wrapping her legs round him, allowing him to sink in so deep, the angle perfect, the friction perfect, the heat of her surrounding him, perfect. 

This, all of it, was more than enough to make him come. All the teasing, all the anticipation and he almost wanted nothing more than to let go of the tension in him, give himself over to the white out of his brain... but he concentrated on her, moving to bring her closer. He felt her hand between them and he hadn’t the strength or coordination left to replace it with his own. And he was still kissing her, open mouthed, messy, breathless, but wanting always to touch as much of her, hold as much of her to him as he could. Her fingernails, dulled by the clothes he was wearing, raking over one shoulder, tangling in the short curls at the nape of his neck, anchoring him. And they were so close, so, so close, and he couldn’t hold back any longer, pulling her against him, pounding into her, the feel of her hips against his, the smell of her, the feeling of her filling his entire being and he was lost. He swore each time that he was with her, that he had never come so hard before, but he knew it was true. It couldn’t be better, but it was. He was too old, too broken, too jaded, too cynical to countenance that this had anything at all to do with love, but he knew it did. Through the haze, he heard her gasp, felt the pull of her muscles against him, smiled against her throat where he was slumped bonelessly. Rousing himself, twining his fingers with hers, pulling them, moving them ‘til her head rested against his chest, ‘till he had them wrapped securely against the cold. He murmured things he couldn’t recall as he hovered on the edge of sleep. One thought crystal. If he knew nothing else, he was booking them a fucking hotel for tonight.

He felt her nuzzle against him, wrapping her arms more securely round him, felt the sigh of her breath against his chest.

“Merry fucking Christmas.”


	10. Its not a journey if you never return - or - 10 questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, finally a new chapter (a long one), this one is very, very, very angsty - have your tissues ready - remember this story isn't sequential....so, this chapter is the one before the car crash one....looking at all my notes, this has at least 6 more chapters to go, at the very least...thank you all for your continued patience...no WIP left behind
> 
> Triggers - Implied child abuse, past substance abuse, suggestion of suicidal thoughts
> 
> SO....Malcolm decides he needs therapy (fuck, does he need therapy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poems, Robert Frost – Fire and Ice, Anon – The Lover in Winter Plaineth for the Spring
> 
> Song – Stay with Me – Sam Smith
> 
> Counselling therapeutic structure – www.drogrady.com with thanks and apologies to Dr O'Grady
> 
> Some dialogue from TTOI unashamedly altered to fit this AU
> 
> I still live for comments :)

“..stay with me? ‘cause you’re all I need. This ain’t love its clear to see. But darling, stay with me...”

He jerked upright, the glass dropping to the floor, droplets caught in slow motion, his face wet from the tears he had shed in his dream, a dream where she was still her, still with him, still in his arms.

Fucking music, he’d fallen asleep with it looping over and over and over through his brain. He ripped the headphones off, threw the whole thing against the wall, watched the tiny bits of plastic and metal fly. One more thing he’d forgotten to erase, all the music she had downloaded, everything they’d listened to together.

She’d said he was a dinosaur, he had said, what was wrong with that?

You know they are extinct?

Right?

He swallowed against the pain of all the memories.

He’d maintained that, said it over and over, it wasn’t love. Kidding himself that every night, was just one night, that there was no more meaning than that. He’d never said it, never said the words, never said he loved her, told himself he would never say the fucking words again. The words were fucking shit, something someone somewhere made up to sell more chocolate. He’d said them to his ex, he thought he’d meant them, he’d been young then, fucking naive, fucking foolish, fucking idealistic, thinking you could tilt at windmills, still believing in fairytales. He never said the words, but he wished he told her to stay, closed his mind to everything else, because when she was lying with him, nothing hurt.

He picked up the glass, filled it, downed it. Swallowed hard, fighting for it to stay down, holding back the bile. He refused to acknowledge the incipient nausea, ignoring the need to eat. Walking to the kitchen, drinking the bitter burnt dregs in the bottom of the coffee pot, rinsing, refilling, setting it going again. There was a metaphor in that somewhere, he wasn’t looking for one. He opened the fridge, tipping the contents into the bin, most of the things had been in there long enough to develop more personality and a higher IQ than anyone he worked with. He tied the bag closed, opened the back door, lifted the brick off the wheelie bin lid (one less family of foxes scrounging a salmonella laced free meal), crammed the contents down, trying not to recoil from the stench. He couldn’t remember what day the fucking thing was collected, he dragged it round to the front, let the fucking neighbours complain.

Sitting all night with a bottle of scotch, his laptop and his notes on everyone he knew who’d ever undergone therapy he looked at the register of the British Association of Counselling and Psychotherapy. He tried to decide if anyone he could think of was less screwed up after the therapy. He discounted the ones that he knew had sold salacious stories to the press. Anyone took his pic, he’d say he was conquering his fear of spiders, let the fuckers send him spiders, his nephew adored him, win, win. Some things he could spin, some things he could control. He’d worked his way through everything from Adlerian Therapy, through Neuro Linguistic Programming (and he thought Baldy talked utter shite) ending with Transpersonal therapy...fucking heightened fucking consciousness, he tried to remember when he’d last smoked anything at all? 1998, possibly, probably, his memory wasn’t a fixed mark anymore, he found his thoughts shifting and slithering, the inside of his head a kaleidoscope, a side show, freak show, hall of fucking mirrors.

He ended up picking a name at random, a road at random, somewhere he could park, somewhere not too out of the way, somewhere he wouldn’t look like he was hiding. No where poncey, no where well know, no where he as going to bump into a has been a wannabe, a minister, a z list sleb, no where he would look as fucking desperate as he fucking was.

He had taken the day off. That was a lie, he had worked from home, still two mobiles, still his laptop, still his tablet, the land line, the papers spread over the floor and ever flat surface, a stack of documents either side of him. He worked through what he had to do steadily, ignoring the clock, ignoring his irrational fears, gnawing inside him, physically tearing the skin off the side of his thumb. Studiously disregarding the bottle of scotch, the lead crystal tumbler, sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of him, sitting there from last night, although seeing as he hadn’t been to bed, all days were the same. He ran his hand over his face, his eyes gritty and protesting, his chin rough – he needed a shower and a shave, if nothing else, he could attempt to pass for human. Pass for human, he could do that, not one of the undead yet, even if everyone thought he would turn to dust if sunlight touched him.

There was sunshine, there were spring flowers, fucking birds were singing, what fucking right did the sun have to shine? It was fucking winter, no place for birds, tendrils of hope and promise would be burned by ice, shrivel and die.

Words of poetry chased through his head

Some say the world will end in fire

Some say in ice

From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favour fire

But if it had to perish twice I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice Is also great

And would suffice

He wondered which circle of Hell was reserved for him, which spot was marked out? Those who committed sins of desire, of lust and greed, they were punished by fire. The lake of ice, the lowest circle of hell, for the betrayers, the company of Satan and Judas, was that where he belonged? Hell couldn’t be worse than being alive, whatever Dante or the priests said, nothing could be worse than this? Maybe that was the great joke, hell wasn’t where you went after you died, it was where you lived. Whatever he fucking did, don’t repeat any of that fucking shite to the therapist, he wasn’t looking to be fitted for a self hugging jacket any time soon, that wasn’t an exit strategy on his list.

Sitting waiting for his therapist, wiping sweat off the palms of his hands against his trousers. Nervous, like a junior mincing cunt of a fucking minister, waiting for a bollocking from himself. He hadn’t watched the Sopranos when it had been all the rage, when everyone was raving about it, he’d thought it was fucking opera. Fuck that! He found it in the early hours of the morning, the dead space when his previous day hadn’t ended, the new one was fast approaching, there was fuck all chance of sleep (every cell in his body was pleading with him, begging him, screaming at him to fucking stop). Another energy drink, another coffee and still his attention drifted from the papers in front of him, he found himself watching the events unfolding on the screen. Tony Fucking Soprano, he felt sympathy for the man, the impossible pressures of family, of the expectations of “business”...Yeah, so he was a fucking psychopath (was he...) If fucking therapy was good enough for Tony, it was good enough for him. However many years it had been, his skin still crawled when he went to a meeting. Maybe a therapist could help him slay some of the ghosts, keep him going, keep him passing for human just a little longer.

James Gandolfini was dead, yeah, that was a fucking cheery fucking thought to focus on.

Fuck

He didn’t have to stay, there was nothing that said he couldn’t just pay his money and leave. How much to say, what to leave unsaid, how much of the sewer of his life to expose. Damage limitation, fight the immediate fire, let the rest burn or rot, just get him through this, say enough, not too much, he could say more next time, if there was a next time.

An anonymous older man, he presumed he was older, these days, every fucker seemed to be younger. He couldn’t have faced some fresh faced twat, someone so new to shaving they still cut themselves, acne craters freshly erupted. The man shook his hand, firm, warm, dry. Maybe he could borrow him afterwards, train up some of the useless cunts, hands like lukewarm, half filled, boneless, rubber gloves.

This is just an overview so I can get a feel, map out the sessions ahead, see where you’d like to get from and to (fucking Sat Nav – that’s how he marked the subsequent appointments in his diary, and he kept them, all of them.)

The man, the therapist, the doctor, the trick cyclist made it clear that he would need time to qualify his questions, to give Malcolm time to pause and reflect before he answered. Silence would be appropriate in future sessions, but it would help enormously if he could articulate his thoughts on this occasion. It was probable that there would be things he would think of after the session was over and it was fine to bring those thoughts with him next time, but unless it was critical, not to feel the need to contact him between sessions... (that suited him just fine.)

_1\. What brings you here? In a session, it sounds like this: “It seems like you know yourself pretty well and have thought a bunch about what you would like to talk about here. People who show up here have courage galore, perhaps even a tad bit of exasperation._

(Mostly fucking furious)

_If you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you some questions,_

(He did fucking mind, this was fucking ridiculous, fucking madness, yeah, that, fuck...)

_ and take notes _

(he tried not to think how and where he would shove them)

_about what you say so I can keep it fresh in my memory._

(he wanted to be able to take them and burn them, dissolve them in acid, delete the man’s memory, but he couldn’t keep going round and round in his own fucking head, even he was starting to feel the company was stale and starting to smell)

_Oh, and feel free to interrupt me at any time or steer the conversation to where you need it to go._

(oh, he’d feel fucking free, even if part of him felt like the new boy in the head’s study, or the vestry, with the old fucking priest, his hand curled round his knee – don’t fucking go there, that was history, dry, dead gone, don’t fucking poke that, he wasn’t telling him that, he wasn’t telling anyone that, he knew what it cost...)

.....

(fucking fix this, fucking fix me) Everything running through his head, opening and closing his mouth like a fucking gold fish, moving to stand, moving to leave, saying nothing, sitting back down (fucking fix this, fucking fix me)

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. He dragged his hand down over his face, tried to stop his foot jiggling, uncrossed his legs, tried to settle himself in the chair, at least the fucker hadn’t asked him to lie down. Maybe that would be better, easier than sitting, trying and failing to keep his expression neutral, his gaze impassive, maintaining some level of eye contact. Lying back and staring at the ceiling had to be easier than this. (fucking fix this, fucking fix me)

_In your mind, what brings you here today?”_

(His mouth opened and closed again)

_2\. Have you ever seen a counselor before? In a session, it sounds like this: “You seem pretty comfortable and confident coming in here and talking about the challenges in your life. Have you ever seen a counselor before?_

(counselling was one step away from the social, there had been a moment in primary school, but he learnt early on, you kept your fucking mouth shut, yeah he’d learnt that from his Da, if nothing fucking else, that and being an addict, yeah, that and being a fucking prisoner, yeah, like father, like son, happy fucking families...)

_If so, how many meetings did you attend and for what issues?_

(Narcotics fucking Anonymous, every fucking week, every fucking year for 20 fucking years, issues longer than a fucking Leonard Cohen song...)

_Did you achieve the results you sought, and did your results ‘stick?’_

(Fucking clean, if that was what he fucking wanted him to say, that was the only thing he had taken away, fucking coping strategies, fuck that, fucking steps...he could fucking stick those)

_What one thing do you remember most that your previous counselor/psychologist/social worker told you?_

( He wasn’t keeping a fucking diary, he wasn’t sharing his fucking dreams, there was going to be nothing with charts and stars (unless it was for his fucking nephew) no fucking art therapy, nothing with his fingers and paint, he’d fucking disembowel anyone who ever suggested role play ever again, there would be no fucking hugging, no fucking tears, he glared at the box of tissues)

_What went right…or what didn’t turn out the way you would have liked it to?”_

_3\. What is the problem from your viewpoint? In a session, it sounds like this: “Every one has a different perspective on what the problem is, and who or what the solution is. The point of counseling is to create positive changes as rapidly as possible without feeling hurried. How do you see the problem or how do you define it? Which difficult people in your life are causing problems for you? How do you get along with people at work?_

(he gave a broken laugh, he hated how it sounded, he bit back, choked it down...a step away from howling, from screaming, from letting the demons out....he smiled politely)

_How would you describe your personality? What are three of your biggest life accomplishments?_

(blank, utterly blank, that was his slate, nothing accomplished, no memorials, nothing that made him proud, his fucking family were secure, his sisters and their bairns, but that was nothing to be proud of, that was what you did, he’d been the man of the family from when he was 9, he knew what responsibility was, he’d taken care of his mam, his sisters, their fucking useless excuses for husbands, their children the only good thing. He kept them distant enough, maybe the press wouldn’t go after them, maybe they wouldn’t be news, maybe they wouldn’t be hounded, there was nowhere he could send them away to...)

_Who or what is most important to you in your life?_

(there was only one answer, raw gaping hole, bleeding suppurating wound, he was struggling to breathe...)

_What is the problem from your viewpoint?”_

(fucking fix this, just fucking fix this, make it better, make it all go away....more poetry...

“The small rain down can rain,

\- Christ, if my love were in my arms

And I in my bed again!”

Fucking fix this...)

_4\. How does this problem typically make you feel? In a session, it sounds like this: “We all have problems or challenges that we must face as we travel along life’s road._

(clichéd bullshit)

_Are you an optimist or pessimist?_

(he was fucking Scottish, was he seriously asking? If some cunt can fuck something up, that cunt will pick the worst possible time to fucking fuck up, because that cunt’s a cunt...she had given him an embroidered tea towel, a t-shirt with it printed in gothic script, boxed up, packed up, shut in the attic, where he’d shut himself if he could....)

_By that, I’m wondering if you believe the proverbial glass is half-empty or half-full?_

(fucking empty, drained dry, smashed and probably used to glass someone)

He wasn’t saying any of this out loud, nothing articulated, half truths, clipped short, terse answers, his fingers white gripping the arm of the chair, trying to hide the shaking...

_How do you feel when a problem pops up unexpectedly?_

(wasn’t that the definition of his working life? Fuck, the definition of his life, there wasn’t anything other than work, not anymore)

_Although feelings aren’t right or wrong/good or bad, every problem has a way of making us feel one way or another. So, how does this problem typically make you feel? Do you feel sad, mad, hopeless, stuck or what?”_

(sick, helpless, empty, lost, if I had time to eat or sleep, I can’t anyway, fucking fix this, all I want is her...what he said out loud...”its inconvenient...” fucking fix this, fucking fix me)

_5\. What makes the problem better? In a session, it sounds like this: “How often do you experience the problem?_

(Every fucking moment of ever fucking day, everyone leaves, fuck it, he’d sent her away, driven her away, told her she meant nothing, told her she was a convenient fuck, made her fucking sob, made her hit him, said enough to make sure she would never come back, he’d rehearsed what he was going to say, wrote it down, every vile, every evil though he’d spewed out at her, driven her from him, done it himself, done it deliberately, because it was best, because it was right, not giving her the choice, not because she might chose to stick with him through everything, not giving her the choice because he couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t chose to walk away, fuck this, fucking fix it, fucking fix him, he wanted to feel better, not feel fucking worse, he’d done the right thing, the noble thing)

_What do you think causes the problem to worsen? Have you ever not had the problem or noticed that the problem went away all together? Have you tried certain tools, read books or pursued avenues in the past that have worked well to solve the problem?_

(he didn’t say how many hours he had spent with google, debating the merits of sitting like a pretzel and chanting om. If he could fucking fix it, why the fuck would he fucking pay someone to fix it for him, handing over money and repairing his car himself, fuck that...sex and drink and drugs... such a tempting path....ignoring the near empty bottle of scotch, the drinks he’d taken to get himself here, leaving that aside, no that wasn’t a path that was going to help him...)

_How does the problem impact your self-esteem or your sense of guilt?_

( he was a sack of shit, he was trying to protect her from all that, that’s what he kept telling himself, that’s what he could have told her, but he was weak, he was pathetic, he was fucking scared....)

_In short, what makes the problem better, if anything?”_

(There was nothing anymore, nothing, that was why he was here, nothing that could make this better, fucking fix this, fucking fix him...)

_6\. If you could wave a magic wand, what positive changes would you make happen in your life?_

(his mind drifted, his thoughts wandered, he remembered the sweary colouring book she’d given him, something he hadn’t tidied away, something he’d found under a pile of papers, something she’d given him to make him smile, something he hadn’t tidied away, one trace he hadn’t erased, nothing anyone could use to trace her back to him, nothing to connect them, he’d held it in his hands poised, about to rip, about to shred it and he’d felt tears falling again, he’d wiped the back of his hand angrily over his eyes, the book had dropped from his fingers to the floor...)

....

(What the fuck was the man saying? “A magic fucking wand?” He wouldn’t be a cunt, first wish, she would be with him, second wish, he would have a future, they would have a future, he would have a family – fucking shut that down, wishes weren’t for him, he was past the time for fairy tales and happy fucking endings – he knew all he could expect was the sharp end pushed up his arse... no fucking wand was going to make what he wanted possible, parcel that pain away, no court case, no prison, no enquiry, no private detectives, neither of them with a fucking ex, no country cottage with roses over the door – not that he’d ever wanted that – not quite delusional yet, many more nights without sleep and those glowing purple spiders in the corner of his room, those, he might start to think they were real...)

_In a session, it sounds like this: “Setting goals creates a focus by which you can be a better manager of your life. Do you regularly set positive goals for your work life, love life and fun life?_

(his to do list, yeah, that Cohen song again, positive goals? Wasn’t that just beardy-weirdy, hippy-dippy shit? All there was, was work, there wasn’t life, and none of it was happy. If NASA sent a probe, the report back would say “no life found here.”)

_What is your attitude about change-do you like change or fear it? What are your positive change goals? How would you like to improve your life that would lead to you feeling more satisfied and happy?_

(He didn’t want to feel like a fucking husk, he wanted to run away, he wanted to change his identity, he wanted a desert island, just with her, she made everything better, he could fee her arms around him, her fingers running through his hair, keeping him safe, telling him everything would be ok, and all of that, everything that was most precious he had thrown away? And for what? For what? Fucking fix this...)

_If we can find ways to make the problem better, perhaps we can find ways to greatly reduce or even eliminate the problem._

(his thoughts skittered away from the ever present solution, the probable possibility that it was the one his colleagues would opt for him, just eliminate himself, there was probably already a waiting list for those who would accompany him to Dignitas...)

_If you could wave a magic wand, what positive changes would you make happen in your life?”_

_7\. Overall, how would you describe your mood?_

(he tried to keep his face impassive, tried not to shout, “how do you fucking think I feel, everything I had is gone?” not happy...that covered it, that he said out loud, empty, lost, alone, the repeated liturgy in his head – priests with incense, robes flapping, dancing pointing fingers of accusation, he really was fucked up)

_In a session, it sounds like this: “Moods come and go like the weather. Some of us are moodier than others or pick up someone else’s mood like a cold. Still others are pretty thick-skinned about emotional events. In your case, what makes you feel anxious? Is your mood like a roller coaster,_

(sick inside, sick all the time, acid climbing his throat, the only taste in his mouth, bile)

or is it pretty steady? What brings you down or makes you feel blue?

(that was his default setting, malicious glee, rapaciousness, was about as happy as he managed, sighing when he dragged this minister or that project back from the brink, when the precipice was skirted, when the cliff didn’t crumble, his threats, his epithets sounding hollow in his own ears, who listens to a dead man, who wants the wisdom of a corpse?

_What’s guaranteed to make you feel up? (Don’t go there) How do you get yourself out of a “bad” mood?_

(He wasn’t sure he could remember how, the colour of her eyes, he tried to picture her, the image flickered and disappeared like smoke, he almost lifted his arms, trying to reach out, he’d found himself in Boots, buying her perfume, spraying it on the pillow next to him, holding it against him, torturing himself, imagining her there. They hadn’t fucked the last time (he shut down on any other word), he’d held her at arms length, gripped her hard enough to bruise, making her listen as if the force of his words wasn’t enough to hold he still. He wished there had been a last time, a time when he’d known he’d never hold her again (whatever he said to himself he’d taken none of their time for granted, held none of it cheap, none of it meaningless), never know the heat of her around him, never hear her gasps and moans, the tiny sounds of bliss and joy, the simple indecent noises of pleasure heedlessly chased, two people who knew each other, never feel the exquisite agony of being with her again. Time hadn’t given them that, not the goodbye he would have chosen, he would have never have chosen that. He wanted to feel her lips on him, brushing against his skin, teasing him, her fingers digging into his scalp, he knew those thoughts were only torture. His memories were all he had, he wasn’t going to give them up, his fist clenched so tight, he hastily balled his handkerchief to hide the blood oozing from the cuts to his palm. He feared losing his mind more than he could say, he couldn’t fix this, he couldn’t go back, he couldn’t fucking time travel. Marley’s fucking ghost, dragging round the chains he’d forged link by link in life....and he wasn’t fucking dead...fucking fix this...fucking fix him)

_Do you use drugs, alcohol, sex, money, etc. or other “mood soothers” to make you feel better?_

(He was fucking clean, but not remotely sober. How many whiskeys had he had? He thought about the drink he’d had before he’d set out...once an addict....such great things he’d inherited from his fucking Da.)

_What have people close to you told you about your moods? Overall, how would you describe your mood?”_

_8\. What do you expect from the counseling process? In a session, it sounds like this: “Everyone who comes here expects something different from the experience._

(Everything was a fucking experience these days)

_I believe you are paying me_

(Yes he was fucking paying, he should have put his time and effort into qualifying for something like this, one problem at a time, comfy, clean office, no phones competing for his attention, no fucking cunts constantly sticking their heads round the door, it was oddly fucking soothing taking time out, sitting in someone else’s world and fucking paying for it)

_to help you achieve your positive goals as quickly as possible. Some people like to receive homework,_

(his stare was so hostile, the flowers on the picture behind the therapist’s head wilted)

_some clients like to vent_

(compressed everything inside a pressure cooker about to explode)

_and have me listen,_

(he could find a hapless split condom of a junior under secretary, he could vent, he wasn’t sure anyone fucking listened, or paid a jot of attention)

_and others want a high level of back-and-forth dialogue or interaction. How do you think you learn best?_

(old dog, new tricks, he was fucking old, he felt every one of his years – how had he gotten so old, what had happened to his life? Had he really chosen this?)

_Do you think of me as your communications and relationships coach?_

(fuck no)

_What do you expect from the counseling process? How many meetings do you think it will take to achieve your goals? How might you undermine achieving your own goals?_

(oh yeah, he could fucking derail himself, he wasn’t fucking healthy, he wasn’t fucking healthy at all, a fucking hamster in one of those little plastic balls, rolling around, oh yeah, he could undermine his goals, he’d done an A1 fucking job so far)

_Do you blame anyone for your problem?_

(faces, names, only him, he was the captain of his ship, the orchestrator of his fate, no Moirai tossing him around, no Clotho, no Lachesis, no Atropos – it was all him)

_Do you use good advice to grow on? How will you know when we are done?”_

(He was fucking done, all that remained were ashes, just keep him going, oil the automaton, that’s all he was, programmed, just keep him going a little longer, let him see the hand play out)

_9\. What would it take to make you feel more contented, happier and more satisfied?_

(Sleep, shit, shower, shave, sex, sandwich – yeah, most of those would work, none seemed to be in his grasp, no power, no control everything postponed, something else always the priority, nothing that was his....bathetic, that was the word, he looked momentarily pleased he hadn’t completely lost his grasp of words, another one for the list, a Pyrrhic victory...fuck, he was so fucking fucked.)

_In a session, it sounds like this: “On a scale of 0-10, how contented are you with your life?_

(Don’t say -10, say something bland, 4, unhappy, but not desperate, he was fucking desperate though, he had to hold on, try not to get fucking sectioned, that still wasn’t an option he was willing to take, the slimy bastards tipping the wink when all the shit ebbed away...)

_What keeps happening over and over again that frustrates you?_

(Sisyphus rolling that fucking ball, why didn’t he just stop, lie down, let it fucking roll over him? The boulder ever rolling away, if it was compulsion, how bad could it be, did you realise there was another way, that there was a way out, that this wasn’t eternity?)

_What do people keep doing that you dislike,_

(fucking up constantly)

_and what do you wish they would change? How do you typically handle irritations,_

(violent sexual imagery, threats, intimidation, excoriating anger....) aggravations and frustrations? (yeah, he was a model of calm fucking reason)

_Do you get mad easily?_

(stare of disbelief, if the cock sucker suggested anger fucking management, he would fucking disembowel him with the abstract fucking desk art. What the fuck was that thing supposed to be anyway?)

_How does your anger come out?_

(verbalised, he didn’t internalize, he ignored the current blatant irony, he didn’t hold onto things, poof and it was one – that sounded healthy? Right? That sounded sane? He needed to stop fucking guessing what he thought the man wanted him to say, he had issues he wasn’t fucking dealing with, he had come here with a fucking purpose, just fucking fix something, fix him, the rest would fall into place, don’t make him fucking unpick his whole fucking life, don’t make him revist all the battle fields, all the graves, it was enough he knew where the bodies were)

_What would it take to make you feel more contented, happier and more satisfied?_

(A glimpse of her in his head and all the anger fell away. Go on, just let the fucker be insightful, let him ask him her fucking name. He dared him)

_What baggage or resentments do you carry from the past?_

(He understood why people spent their whole lives in therapy, that wasn’t for him, it wasn’t going to be for him, fix this, fix him and he’d move on, leave the corpses where they fell, the festering noisome rot, leave it all behind)

_What wrongs have been done to you that you haven’t forgiven?_

(Oh right, poke the open wounds, that would be just fucking fine and fucking dandy, salt on the leprous sores that had once be his soul, yeah, absolutely fucking fine)

_What changes could someone make that would really make you feel happy?_

(Come back, forget everything he said, just come back, forget what lay ahead, come back, be in his embrace one more time, come back and stay with him, stay with him forever and that wouldn’t begin to be long enough...)

_What has been a major life disappointment?_

(fucking all of it, no friends, no real friends, no children, no glory, no memoirs, no trace of him left, no one’s fond remembrance, a wank stain on history, that’s what he was, wiped out, disregarded, forgotten, move on)

_Do you feel mad when you don’t get your way or lose control?_

(What fucking control, this knuckles white as he held on to, held onto what? He didn’t know anymore. Cut the strings and fucking strangle him with them, but there was no way out, he was a fucking puppet, and less fucking fun that fucking Orville.)

_Who is pulling your strings, and why?”_

_10\. Do you consider yourself to have a low, average or high interpersonal I.Q.?_

(What the fuck did that mean?)

_In a session, it sounds like this: “Would you rate your communication skills as negative, neutral or positive?_

(Fucking outstanding, he was a director of communications, no one ever mistook his meaning. But.... His magic hat was fucking empty. The rabbits were failing to pieces, their fucking heads were dropping off, frightening the kids. Tablets to go to sleep, tablets to stay awake, he’d stopped that merry go round, but the nightmares were just as vivid and didn’t stop when he woke. How close had the addiction come to riding him, what had this job done to him. He didn’t just take the fucking job home, no, it tied him to the fucking bed, it fucking fucked him from arsehole to breakfast (don’t, too much, too close, too real, bite down on the words, hold the flood back, plug the dam with fucking something). If he slept, he was woken with a cupful of piss slung in his face, slapped around the chops to make sure he was awake enough to really feel it when he was kicked in the bollocks. The job had taken everything, taken him in every hole in his fucking body. MALCOLM WAS GONE! Had he shouted that aloud? He lifted a hand to his mouth, touching his lips, seeing if he could feel the imprint of the words, trace their mark. Malcolm isn’t here! Malcolm fucking left the building fucking years ago! He was a fucking husk, he was a host for the fucking job, it had fucking gnawed and burrowed inside of him, it was a fucking parasite, he had been eaten alive, what looked out of his eyes wasn’t him, what was staring out just told him what to do and he took it. He was just self aware enough to know how truly fucking fucked he was...)

_How well do you get along with your life partner?_

(The ground dropped away from under him)

_Do you love your life partner? What positive relationship rules do you follow? How would you describe your relationship with your kids/grandkids._

(His hand went to his mouth, he actually was going to be sick, he sprang up, made it to the sink in the corner, splattered remains of something he couldn’t remember eating, the reek of regurgitated alcohol, retching ripping against his stomach, fearing he would never regain the power to breathe, drowning in his reaction, water, damp cloth, firm warm hand on his shoulders, rubbing, reassuring him, the most warmth he’d experienced in months, his throat closing again, he gripped the porcelain fiercely, if he held on hard enough, he could pull himself back, must have been something he ate, can we call it a day, running a hand over his face, sweat gluing his shirt to him, he had to get out. Yes, he’d schedule another appointment, just let him get the fuck out of the office.

He didn’t remember getting home, he did remember downing the rest of the scotch, he remembered emptying out every other bottle so he wouldn’t be tempted to drink them.

He didn’t surface again until Jamie kicked the fucking door in.


	11. Hic et ubique (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set just after the christening  
> Terri appears  
> Too much time inside Malcolm's head  
> There is mention of miscarriage (this even may not actually have happened, Malcolm doesn't know that though) - warning given in case   
> Just a hint, his ex is a bitch, he still doesn't know how much of one  
> There is drug use referenced
> 
> And part of the chapter is funny.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/E2PvZNs3Jgw link to the song, it is very, very sappy, it is for very young primary aged children
> 
> I either posted this chapter in two parts or it was never going to end....
> 
> This story may never end, there is so much of it....
> 
> Malcolm as someone helpful reminded me this week, is a woobie, it is entirely appropriate to want to hug him and kiss him until he is all better - and probably feed him something nourishing and wrap him in something warm
> 
> oh and Terri's survey - https://www.reddit.com/r/sex/comments/22ujae/fetish_list_that_might_help_people_open_up/ ..... not for the faint hearted and absolutely nsfw

1 – very much into / something I enjoy / Turn on 2 – Haven’t done it but want to try 3 – I would do it if the other person enjoyed it 4 – Does nothing for me, but isn’t a limit 5 – Hard limit / Something I won’t do / Turn off

Terri Coverly pressed send.

She was blushing. No one could see what she had sent, no one would know what she had sent. 

She blushed, and then she giggled, and then she went grey.

She had started one email, and then been distracted....please say she hadn’t copied in who she thought she had into the email she had just sent. 

Please, please, please, please, please.

She crossed her fingers. She put one hand over her face and peered through her fingers as she opened her sent folder and checked. 

That was it, she was dead.

She contemplated throwing herself on the mercy of the IT department, maybe they could erase all trace before he saw it? The one she secretly called “Q”, was sweet, nice, kind, he would help her. They would know what she had sent, she would have to explain what she had sent...They were probably reading it and laughing and forwarding it between them already. She had probably contravened several workplace regulations...She really couldn’t claim it was a harmless questionnaire...just a bit of fun...no, it really had been rather explicit, but it did so help to get the awkward questions out of the way right at the start. She had always prided herself on being a sensible, no nonsense, practical kind of girl, completing the online survey seemed entirely reasonable at the time. She loved filling out those little quizzes you found online, the ones in magazines. She was a Hufflepuff, (she smiled to herself)...they were always such harmless, good fun....

She could move to another country and assume a new identity.

 

Oh, my!

What had she done?

He would eviscerate her, use her innards as bunting for Number 10, or some other colourful metaphor – but they were metaphors that he used (similes, analogues, she wasn’t really sure which word was the right one)....he didn’t actually do the things that people said he did....did he?

She found herself reflecting that she sometimes thought, in and idle moment, that he was rather sweet, maybe that hadn’t been her exact thought, but she wasn’t going to begin thinking the other things. Thoughts like those led her to sending emails, emails just like the one she had just sent. 

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Her mother hadn’t spoken to her for two months after the other email incident. Not that she would ever call a little girl that. There was no way of explaining it to her mother. Her mother made it clear she hadn’t been able to go to bridge, her membership of the WI had been rescinded and as for going to the supermarket or the hairdressers, it was out of the question. She had made Terri organise and pay for online deliveries and a stylist visit her at home – none of this communicated except in a letter, via her mother’s solicitor. Her mother didn’t want to be implicated, she was sure Terri would understand. They were speaking now, but for how much longer if this was made public.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Malcolm, she always felt like a naughty school girl with him, it was as if the man could hear your thoughts. Oh God, don’t let him be able to hear her thoughts. His uncanny knack of just appearing, there was the hint of the supernatural, the dark lord of Downing Street....

Looking nervously over the top of her monitor, she sighed with relief, no, no sign of him...yet. 

She would make a cup of tea, have a biscuit, forget about any abstinence in Lent. She would have a biscuit and a sit down. Yes, that was what she would do. Make plans for seeing her mother at the weekend (all being well....let everything be well). Perhaps two biscuits, and really, tea didn’t taste the same without sugar. Definitely don’t think about the email. It would all be fine. She nodded to herself, and again looked round nervously, just to be sure, just in case. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Too fucking early.

Fucking somewhere, actinic glow from the arc lights illuminating everything, his face a death mask. An ocean of cones, each orange light blinking, no synchronicity, Morse code for the alien invasion, incipient migraine, the roil of nausea. Outside the car, looking at the unmoving, unbroken line of traffic. Cars stretching into the distance, rain hissing and steaming where it hit hot metal. Heedless of the sleet, (giving him the kind of facial Nicola would probably shell out his salary for at Harvey Nicks) he continued to stand where he was, the cold eating through the meagre shelter of his suit, cutting through his ribs and chilling him to the marrow. 

He debated the alternative, slumping back in the fug of the car, surrounded by the oppressive warmth, the competing aftershaves, insufficient intellect to fill a tea cup – he stayed where he was.

4.17 am. Plenty of time to get to the arse end of nowhere. No signs of life in his email, he checked the signal – no fucking connection. Arse end of nowhere and no fucking wifi – fucking perfect. Fuck it, no one knew he wasn’t watching them, how much could they fuck up in the time he was gone? He shook his head, in a locked room with nothing more harmful than a crayon, they could fuck up. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease out the tension, trying to review everything he had to do, trying not to think when he’d last gone to his own bed on the same day that he’d risen? He really couldn’t recall. 

Fuck this he was marooned with the PM and Baldycock, a trip so insignificant he wasn’t convinced the local press would turn out, he’d be reduced to taking snaps with his phone and posting them on fucking facebook.

Ignoring the messages the freezing downpour was telegraphing to his bladder, ones that he had no prospect of acting on.

“Communications Director pisses on car in rain – metaphor for state of Government.” – not exactly catchy....

“Gorbals’ Goebels exposed.” - unoriginal

Fuck it, creating headlines in his mind, usually his last resort...the music in the car was interminable, the news channel worse.

Fuck it.

He could feign sleep. He didn’t have to talk to them.

Looking up, he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the stars, he saw nothing now, his eyes blinking shut under the excoriating assault of the elements.

He turned his gaze towards where he knew the distant hills to be, the faintest suggestion of snow giving him a glimpse of them, or so he thought. Part of him yearned to be outside the city, the rest of him knew he was weaned on concrete and tarmac.

He shrugged.

Climbing back into the car, he leaned back into this seat, pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes, attempting to ignore the weight and bulk of Julius against him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arriving. 

Flurry of pointless activity, make work, bread and milk to some, important for others, an opportunity never to be missed, this petition, that letter, could you help with, and every fucker and their phone wanted a fucking selfie, fucking vacuous fucking fuck. Press everywhere, well he wasn’t reduced to bottom feeding anymore...  
Exchanging vacuous, empty platitudes with anonymous local officials, nothing that could be quoted, nothing that could be misconstrued as an opinion. 

 

Frizzy, dry, crisp, flat hair. Grey and dull, lifeless. Spreading out from the crown of her head, brushed flat, but otherwise unstyled. He was standing behind her, towering over her. Only because of this, only this caused him to look down. Her hair wasn’t spreading out so much from her crown, as from a growth? A head injury? There was a dark crater, mostly black, seeming the size of a 50p piece, probably not more than 5... The waxy skin slightly domed round it. Malcolm wasn’t squeamish. This, he had to fight to suppress a shudder of revulsion, concentrate on focusing his gaze, look anywhere else, keep his expression one of bland equanimity.

 

Sandwiches. So thin, so dry, so lifeless, tea, so insipid (he wished he’d saved his own piss to drink). – after the first mouthful, holding onto the cup and saucer, purely with the aim of disposing of them at the earliest opportunity. He found himself longing for the far off memory of transport caffs, somewhere he could have eaten a real breakfast.

The motorway service station, the pastry that was vainly masquerading as a croissant. No amount of jam or butter would transform them from the hand grenade of crumbs they became. Each of the distant shots of caffeine became a wistful memory, all that remained was a dry, foul, bitter taste in his mouth – he looked round, a camel, desperate, hoping at least for the mirage of an oasis. There surely had to be water...? 

Ushered into the hall for the little darlings to perform. The chairs ridiculous, impractical, and of course, the perfect photo op. Malcolm scrambled round and found chairs that were appropriate...he perched sideways on something so Lilliputian, so small, he found his knees up by his ears. He watched the performers, the audience – security ever present but unusually discrete. He remembered to turn his phone to silent, scrolling hurriedly through his messages.....was there ever anything not marked urgent? IT? IT never messaged him....it would keep.

A red headed little boy, smiling arms outstretched, holding a blue ball, about to throw, as his arm extended behind him the ball was released, dropping to the floor, the lad giggled. His grandma swept him up into her arms, embracing him, holding him close, jiggling him on her hip. 

Fuck, he was broody – was that even a thing? He remembered the weight of Noah in his arms – so fragile, so warm, the whole universe contracting into the lads fierce grip on his finger, the intense focused stare, trying to stuff Malcolm’s finger into his mouth – the strong suck against him, generating a feeling so powerful, so raw, so intense he’d handed him off to the next eager adult and tried not to poke the empty chasm inside himself.

The song, why did the song fucking get to him? The singing wasn’t angelic, or necessarily even in tune, the children fidgeted, some stared blankly, the words if they ever knew them, long since forgotten. Hearing them hurt, he was a soft fuck, no matter what he projected, no matter how thick his hide how impregnable his carapace – he knew somewhere still inside, there was a corner of him that was still hopeful (what did he have to hope for, could he even remember what dreams were, how to formulate them, how to articulate them?) Part of him buried under the shit, the poison the accretion of evil, there was something that wasn’t squashed. Whatever that was, that part of him that he didn’t despise, that one remaining moral spark (the ember of what he’d once been, or thought he was) the romantic he would scoff at, that part hurt. All the bad words, all the bullies, all the moments before he could fight back, before everyone knew he was far too fucking psycho to ever back down no matter what kind of beating he took, all those memories coalesced within this fucking awful song.

Trying to drag away his thoughts from that moment, so long before, the one he’d locked away, the one he would deny under oath that he remembered, the one where he thought children would be part of his future, part of his life. Squeezing his eyes shut, he wasn’t going to greet because his arms had felt full, his heart light, having a wee one nestled against him, not looking at him with loathing, revulsion. Did he even remember what love felt like anyway.

Fucking song.

Maybe he could hide a law banning sentimental shite in the middle of a white paper?

What would his son have looked like? The colour of his eyes, his hair, would he have been cursed with his nose? His fingers twitched at the thought of the downy softness of his skin, perfect, unblemished. Where had they laid him, the life that hadn’t happened? What had the hospital done with the remains? Shaking his head at the memory of the word. The song trapped him and wouldn’t let him go , memories of childhood, memories of things that had never happened. 

Fuck.

Who had ever told him he was a fucking star? When had he been praised or thanked? When had someone last been fucking kind to him? A life built on expectations and guilt, with fuck all pay off. He’d been responsible and a fucking good boy! Where were the memories of happiness, of being held, fucking protected from the things no one should ever fucking know, the whispered words of encouragement of praise, of looking out into a sea of faces and seeing someone who was there just for him.

Fuck, he had to sleep, he had to eat, he had to find some fucking perspective, he had to sort his fucking head out, fuck this maudlin fucking crap.


	12. More hic, more ubique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Terri has created her own special brand of shit storm. Malcolm, well, he's in the middle (sorry, not sorry)...just this once, an EU conference with Baldy and the PM seems blissful - via musings at home, media training in the office and splendid moments with Nicola.....
> 
> The angst just keeps piling on....that and some blackest of black humour and a little naked introspection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter were lovingly created from Cards against Humanity....

Trying to erase the memory of Baldy’s conspicuous erection....not what any hall of school children and their parents should be exposed to....exposed, fuck, he was tired, not that, don’t even fucking think that. He had slapped a handful of folders against his middle and at least the fucker had had the sense to clutch them like a fucking life belt.....Fuck, some things he could never fucking unsee. Fuck, if this didn’t justify a tumbler of fucking scotch, nothing did. 

For a few blissful moments he imagined ordering a curry, no where delivered this fucking late, this fucking early. He amended that, nowhere he fucking wanted to eat from. early or late.

Sliding the medal between his fingers and the metal worn smooth and thin, never one for faith or superstition. (Everyone fucking lies). Somehow he clung to that, the last day before it all turned to shite. He knew no one was watching over him, no wings to protect, no intercessions on his behalf. Far off orisons haunting fleeting sleep.

Home (was that what it fucking was). No fucking heating. Fuck, his fucking to do list was longer than a fucking Leonard Cohen song, longer than his fucking cock... No fucking way he was giving any fucker the keys to him house when he wasn’t fucking there. He was used to cold, grew up cold. Bone thin fingers wrapped round a mug of tea, the only warmth, his breath steaming in the air, fuck this, he was as well going into the office.

Cold, alone, suited his fucking mood, at least here there was no one he had to pretend to be polite to. He didn’t go anywhere. He could read fucking emails here as well as anywhere.

Picking up the blanket his niece had given him – wrapping it round his shoulders, fuck it, he was turning into a little old spinster. He took the two keys out of his inner pocket, separate from all the rest. Unlocked his study, walked over to his desk, unlocked the drawer. Lifted out the packet, the lighter, ran his finger over the tiny metal box, tapped it, once, twice, always the reminder. The yawning abyss so welcoming, so inviting, the downward slide so fucking easy. He should throw it far, far away, but the balance the challenge the allure, the fucking attraction, kept something in check, fucked if he knew what it fucking was. He slid a cigarette out, lit it, stubbed it out, broke it in half, threw it away, his ritual complete. 

The litany, the list, repeating it over to himself, sliding his thumb over the fucking app, opening it, logging in.  
Toxic psychosis  
Physiological and behavioural disorders  
Dizziness  
Pounding heartbeat  
Difficulty breathing  
Mood or mental change  
Unusual tiredness or weakness  
Cardiac arrhythmias  
Repetitive motor activity  
Ulcers  
Malnutrition  
Mental illness  
Skin disorders  
Vitamin deficiency  
Flushed or pale skin  
Loss of coordination  
Physical collapse  
Convulsions  
Coma  
Death

Far more fucking convincing than any fucking twelve fucking steps.

Hi, my name is Malcolm, I’m a fucking addict.

15 fucking years, Tom fucking knew. These days everyone was a fucking addict. How much of the damage was permanent he never bothered to find out. Fuck his fucking sponsor and his fucking cheery fucking emails, what did the fucker have to be fucking cheerful about?

Repudiate, rebuke, reject.

He looked up, looking at the wall above his desk. It was not a fucking shrine, no fucking candles, no fucking incense, no fucking crucifix, the rosary (his sister, a holiday, Rome) half hidden, still unconsciously running his fingers over it every time, before he sat down.. these days it was more of a fucking accusation. He didn’t need to listen to the voices in his head, there were plenty on the outside.

Faded newspaper clippings (ones he’d written, once upon a time), pictures, photos, drawings, names, key words, stuff pinned on top of stuff, bits peaking out, curling edges, faded, blurred, yellowing, some fallen down on the floor, behind everything, out of reach, promising himself he would pull everything out, fight his way past the cables and get to them. Settling to work, flicking the power on the lap top, fingers catching in the blanket, thinking of his favourite niece, shouldn’t have a favourite, still did, going to fucking Poxbridge. The exams he passed in another world, the scholarship that was his, couldn’t go, couldn’t leave his family for three years without an income, wasn’t the place for him, 30 years of telling himself that. Sliding his fingers over the spines of the books he’d starved for, books he didn’t have time to read, ones he knew every word of. What could he have learned that he hadn’t found out? He should sleep, not fucking work. Fucking soft. He couldn’t shake the memories of the day, their talons locked in refusing to let him go. 

He tried to focus. 

Faces shouting at him from amongst the morass. Running his fingers over a snap of him and her, they had been happy, once. He had smiled, once. Not the savage, rictus grin, the facial spasm that his face contorted into now, no, his eyes were fucking happy, his nose crinkled – he touched the picture with wonder, had that really been him? If he could travel in time, would he tell the poor fucker what was ahead, or leave him to smile? Leave him the memory of happiness, lost like smoke in the tumbling years?

Fuck.

What was he doing this for, did he have any principles anymore? He should fucking eat, he should fucking sleep. He opened the last document he’d been working on, looked at his hand written notes, tried to make the apparent hieroglyphics make sense.

Venial versus mortal sins. He’d long since stopped believing, but the shackles of his faith held him fast, the guilt never let him go. What gifts did he have left? If he did, what was he fucking using them for? Did it fucking matter? Did anything matter....What fucking soul? 

Fuck this.

The questions wouldn’t let him fucking go, he stared at the blinking cursor in front of him, the tea long gone cold, his fingers numb. Questions he shouldn’t fucking ask with no food, no sleep, no reason and fucking cold enough to shrivel his balls. How many nights had he sat like this, the questions going round and round in his head? What was he doing anymore? Who was he serving? What was the fucking point? When had everything become a fucking means to a fucking end? When had he stopped counting the cost? When had he stopped drawing a line in the sand? When had he stopped having any fucking morals? When had he slipped into justifying every fucking foul, sleazy method, when had violence, when had blackmail, when had coercion come so easily to him? What was he doing to Jamie, using him the way he did? What was he doing to himself?

Fuck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fucking morning, too fucking early, even for him.

Fuck, his fucking pubes were grey.

Not given to bouts of introspection, even less to staring at his own naked reflection. Some poncey fucking stylist could call his hair fucking salt and fucking pepper (fucking condiments) – but no such description should ever be ascribed to his pubes. When had he wound up this fucking old? Even his cock looked wizened, perfect for the half price or less bin in the vegetable aisle. Fuck. His skin was an unforgiving shade of pale grey blue and the viridian scrawl of his veins, shockingly stark under the unforgiving flickering and pinging neon light.

Fuck this.

Pulling up his swimming trunks he marched resolutely to the pool and threw himself into the freezing water (nothing remotely resembling a dive, but just this side of a belly flop). All his concentration focused on holding his breath, staying under, determined to complete half a length before his lungs exploded, before he clawed his way to the surface, before he gasped for breath, drawing oxygen into his lungs, the only moment when he truly knew he was alive. Ignoring all thoughts of cramp, of the icy water freezing his bollocks off, all in all a very small price to pay for the absolute peace and fucking quiet. Everything muted, everything still, eyes open, looking up through the water, the temptation to never surface. Too much fucking with things that couldn’t fucking be. Every fucking week he promised himself this was how he would start every day – his personal record was still standing, three out of fucking seven. About par for the number of days he fell into bed on the same day he woke, above his average for eating something that wasn’t pre-packaged, shrink wrapped, capable of surviving a nuclear winter, related to Cher and cockroaches and not available in under 6 minutes from the microwave. Fuck this, he knew how to fucking cook.

Warm after the pool, his skin tingling, all his nerve endings burning, alive, for the moment. His cock, hot and thick and heavy in his hand. Sliding his fingers down his length, once, twice, feeling the twitch, the expectation, the anticipation, the need coiled deep within. Holding himself in check , focusing on nothing more than cleaning, concentrating on the stinging, scalding spray, allowing himself the luxury of 10 whole minutes, scrubbing at his skin...pulling his hand away...no amount of apparent privacy tempting him into the prospect of public indecency. Fuck it, when had he last had time to have a wank? When had he last fucked someone? Even if he had, when had it last mattered? When had anything mattered? What was her name, the one who’d looked at him? He couldn’t even recall her name. One thing he knew, just one thing, if he met her again, he would absolutely know.

Fuck, enough fucking intro fucking spection... much more of this and he’d be sitting with a shrink and drinking chamomile tea.

He’d slept in his own bed, never long enough, but it’d have to do. What a fucking fiasco, fucking Terri. Sucking down the four shots, the espresso never quite replicating the hit and buzz he still craved. The crawling under his skin, the insects that gnawed, they were satiated for now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wasn’t sure exactly what time it had been when he had finally trawled through all of his emails.

Fuck

Well, wasn’t he in for a day of shits and giggles? Every single journo he had ever fucked over had sent him an email. IT were experiencing some form of apoplexy. Fuck it, he’d sort it in the morning. At least he wasn’t the Archbishop of fucking Canterbury, he couldn’t wait to read that fucking press release.

His mother had no stupid sons, by the time he was in work IT were filtering his emails before they reached him, removing the astonishingly questionable porn, the pointless jibes, the clamours for a quote. Everyone received a standard innocuous reply. He would give any cunt who thought they had something funny to say to him today a fucking quote, he’d staple it to their forehead, tattoo it on their balls. Fuck.

 

Only Ollie, the dumb fuck had left any thing on his desk, he’d rifled through the pile with the end of a pencil, letting security remove and bag it, watching on CCTV when the donkey cock sucking wank stain had left it on his desk. He didn’t have the energy, enthusiasm, or time (fucking media training for the virgin MPs) to bollock the useless waste of skin there and then. It would keep. Let security talk to him, let HR talk to him, he would save his moment, let the oleaginous little shit think he was embarrassed, that he could somehow be weakened by someone else’s incompetence. Terri, her he would happily never go near again. Promoted far above any pretence of competence, he was sure she could be rehomed in an innocuous local government office, far, far away. He may momentarily have allowed himself to muse on the theme of gulags, or holiday camps, she would fit well in either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fucking media, fucking training. Fuck, there was no way he could pass this onto someone else. He had one chance to try to mould the latest pile of shite into functioning, walking, talking MPs. Not a fucking chance.

Your executive decision making powers have been revoked. Your permission to think is revoked. Its only after considerable thought and others pleading on your behalf that you are being granted permission to use the toilets unescorted. Anything you do or say is double plus ungood (not one of the fuckers understood a word of what he said, they were chum covered baby seals being dangled over the hungry waiting sharks).

 

NO fucking snapchat, no fucking instagram, no facebook, no fucking social media. Nothing that we don’t sign off, and by we, I mean fucking me. Nothing that you think is fucking funny, because it fucking isn’t. The monster never sleeps, no eyelids and if it ever had, they are stapled to its forehead. It sees everything, it remembers everything, it forgives nothing, everything will be taken down and used against you, every image, every word, every hand shake, every fucking thing – and if they don’t use them, be fucking certain, I fucking will.

It will make a story out of fucking anything. He paused, let them fucking comment, this was their one fucking chance, the one point where he was alluding to the shit storm he’d some how landed in. 

Fucking Terri. 

Nicola Fucking Murray, God fucking bless her. The fucking belly dancing fucking video. Dressed like an Amazon whore on acid, it had fucking surfaced again, he should be fucking grateful, it was almost a welcome distraction. That’s why mum’s go to Iceland....fucking fuck him, what the fuck had she been thinking? What was he saying, she didn’t fucking think, her head was empty, a fucking black hole, sucking in anything around and letting out nothing, nothing of any fucking use. He’d spun it every fucking way to Christmas but she was still a fucking omnishambles. All he needed to make his week complete was someone to recount to him one more time the horrifying details of her laser hair removal. He rolled his head on his shoulders and debated whether it was more or less beneficial if he leaked that himself.

Fuck.

He looked at the assorted rag bag of what the fuck the cat had dragged in. How the fuck was he meant to work with shite like this?

Legs so skinny, thigh no thicker than his own wrist, the jeans had to be tailored, long and straight, still loose, a grey so pale and soft, if they had once been lack it was just a memory. Looking at the lads face, there was every possibility the jeans were older than him. No fucking idea what his fucking name was, and who the fuck had told him he could wear jeans, he would wear a fucking suit like the rest of them. When had MPs become this fucking young, and he didn’t mean Mari fucking what’s her name from the SNP, he had a sneaking regard for her. No the useless crop of cunts he was working with....he seriously needed to talk to Nick on the selection committee...without direction he wasn’t sure this lot would fight their way out of a wet paper bag....did they wear high viz jackets and have someone hold their hand to take them home on the tube?

What’s the next Happy Meal toy? A ginger freckled ballsack? Fuck, he needed to fucking work with fucking grown ups. 

Fucking fuck him, he was fucked.

He had never imagined the prospect of an EU conference could be a pleasant one. Maybe he could just get on a plane and reinvent himself in Panama? That was a thing? Right? Anything was fucking better than the fucking Dali dreamscape his fucking office had become. Fucking Terri.

 

Swiping the fucking door lock, at some point he was going to be fucking strangled by his fucking lanyard, his photo grim, his eyes dead – he considered substituting pictures of Muppets on all the Cabinet IDs, they would be infinitely more recognisable.

 

The train was bliss, it shouldn’t have been. Hours uninterrupted, pen scratching over paper, no fucking interruptions. He wrote long hand, preferring never to leave copies, or commit anything to computer. Yeah, some other fucker could learn from that. His eyebrows twitched as he flicked his gaze over the latest headlines, they were speculating on the more famous names on the list, only his colleagues and every cunt journo he had ever fucking known were harassing him. 

Fuck

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paris......

Bijou. Fucking bijou. Fucking period details – fuck. It looked sufficiently old he wasn’t convinced it had indoor plumbing. The intricate cage of the antediluvian wrought iron lift sparkled from its gold highlights. Looking antiquated enough to have been a clockwork toy for Moses and a wet dream for Gustave Eiffel, Malcolm didn’t step inside – he wasn’t fucking Nicola, but he wasn’t taking a lift for six fucking floors, he could crawl there faster. Just this once some other fuck could deal with his luggage – they could take the fucking lift. 

Brass stair rods, shallow treads, royal blue, gold acanthus leaf border, cream paint work, light flooding in from windows surrounding the stair well. Too many fucking nights with make over shows on in the fucking back ground. He had, had a fucking life once? Hadn’t he?

Not breathless, fucking old, but still fucking fit...

As he’d surmised, he reached the door of his room before the lift mechanism appeared to have wheezed into life.

He swiped his keycard through the door lock, stepped into the room, took one look and went back outside. A veritable tart’s boudoir, free standing bath, candles, uplights, draperies, bed strewn with pillows. Someone was having a fucking laugh, who the fuck had booked him in here? Romantic (oh do him a fucking favour) getaway, possibly....EU conference, communications director...fucking no. This was what he achieved by for once declining the offer of corporate hospitality and splendour. He could babysit Baldy, the PM and all their coterie without having to sleep with them, literally or figuratively.

It better have fucking wifi.

Heading back down the stairs, two at a time, fucking humming to himself, folders under his arm. Fucking blinded, dazzled, sun bursting through the clouds, pouring through the windows, light, all consuming. He didn’t turn to fucking dust when it fucking touched him, damned dark lord he may be, but not all the rumours were fucking true. He was paralysed, overwhelmed, covering his face with his hands, frozen between one heartbeat and the next. As suddenly as it was there, the light was gone. He rubbed his face, lifted his hands away, blinked, his foot poised to make another step, suddenly unsure, literally wrong footed. 

He blinked again.

Looked round, and there she was....


	13. Honu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally - an update.
> 
> Things take a dramatic turn in the "Reader's" life, all from Malcolm's point of view - a romantic holiday happens.
> 
> But this is Malcolm, nothing is ever angst free. Gratuitous cameos from a variety of TTOI characters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - any, and all feedback is so, so welcome. Thank you everyone for your continued patience.

The first update from her, he had tried to stamp down on the stab of jealousy, he was better than that. No he fucking wasn’t. Compared to her, he was barely better than scum. He had to control his lip from curling in contempt at the man he had become. When did idealism become this? He wanted to hear from her first hand, he wanted to be first in her life. He knew he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be, he couldn’t be – her children were everything. They would and should, always be first. The more time he spent with her, the more he uncovered about her, the more he wondered how and why she had ever chosen him. 5 mins was all she had, he wouldn’t chose himself if he was given the time – it hadn’t stopped him re-reading the thing 30 fucking times, looking to see if there was something hidden, looking to see if there was something that might be just for him. He crushed that pain down and tried to quash the thoughts, reduced to hearing about her third hand, via her fucking ex, via her fucking assistant, worse, it was at his own fucking insistence. Nothing that could directly link them – and he convinced himself it was to protect her. Her career was too important to risk being tainted by him – all he was, was chum and the sharks were closing in. Her assistant, Batman, what the fuck was the man’s actual name…Devon….that was it….He had laughed at her calling him Batman, he was a fucking magician, a wonder of all things multimedia and logistical. He’d set up another e-mail account – untraceable, another phone – just in case. He tried to ignore in case of what. He didn’t….he was fucking lying, he was fucking Scottish, he had run through every worst case fucking scenario in his head. He had fucking prayed, he had made bargains with a God he didn’t fucking believe in.

She would be fine.

Poussiere, ghabar – words for dust – that was what he was, that was what he had become, blowing away in the wind. Maybe that would allow him to be with her, the dust in her lungs, on her shoes, in her hair.

They had the chance to see her – he didn’t even warrant a glimpse, not even the sound of her voice. He knew instinctively this was it – the end of what they had. How had he let it become this? When had he fallen in love with her? What had happened since Paris, what had changed, what had possessed him at Christmas? To take her home with him? How had he let himself think that it could be anything more than those stolen moments. When had she become his only concept of home?

He had to still his hand from reaching for her shower gel, when had she left it here? He popped the cap and inhaled the fragrance – torturing himself, imagining her with him. Remembering the breath being stolen from his lungs as he watched her shave her fucking legs. He decided it was simply the most erotic thing he had ever seen, the foam sliding down, the water cascading over her, her tongue just poking between her lips in concentration (he was wise enough to not draw her attention to that…) the razor following each of the taut curves of the muscles of her legs. He couldn’t shake the memory of those same legs wrapped round his waist, her heels digging him into his arse, urging him on, the fucking sounds causing him to roll his head as he remembered. He couldn’t lose himself, he didn’t have enough time, there was never enough fucking time. He swore at this rebellious cock, hot, hard, heavy in his hand – his fingers and thumb moved over his length, swiping over the gathered arousal, dragging back his foreskin, teasing the head, pressing against the sweetest spot – he swore again, bracing himself with one arm against the tiles, cool under his palm, almost pulling his thoughts back for a moment, but he lost himself in thoughts of her. The memory of stepping into the shower with her, taking the razor from her hand, lifting her leg and dragging his mouth over her skin – placing hot, messy open mouthed kisses over the path of the water, working his way upwards until he reached his goal. His senses filled with the smell of her, the taste of her. Kneeling in the shower, heedless of anything except the sounds she was making – the sting of her fingernails against his scalp, the feel of her fingers pulling his hair. And the memory was enough…he dialled the shower round to cold, the icy blast bringing him back, he needed the release, he wanted the buzz, the glow – but that was a luxury he couldn’t afford – finish his shower and get on with his fucking day – lock thoughts of her away in the vault in his mind – keep her there, keep her safe.

Fucking Dosac – how could one department be comprised of every no hoper, brain dead, fuck up – all of them a waste of skin. If he hadn’t had a coronary by now, he wasn’t going to have one today – what was it that oily cunt Ollie had reported to him – Nicola thought his arteries were like a squeezed up tube of Anusol…..and then shared a graphic account of Glenn’s issues. Well, if he hadn’t dealt with his arousal earlier, thoughts of that should keep him from getting hard ever again. To survive the journey between reading the headlines, getting to work, making the fuckers come to his office, to pass the time he created inappropriate greeting cards in his head – so sorry for your piles – here, have these grapes…. – not witty, no rhyme, he listed rhymes for piles….he would have been quicker walking to fucking work, he’d have been quicker taking the Tube – he knew why he didn’t, but it didn’t help. He checked his phone automatically, the reflex unconscious, hitting refresh on his email, checking, re-checking. He had al-jazzera with subtitles scrolling on a monitor in his office 24/7, he had a friend at the MOD, friends at the foreign office, he talked to everyone he could think of – hiding it under fact finding, policy proposals – trying to lock his fear away with everything else.

He was being irrational. Nothing bad would happen she would be fine. What the fuck was she doing, wherever the fuck she was? She couldn’t tell him, she couldn’t tell anyone – but based on the one place he knew she was going he had a good fucking idea. He should have made her explain it to him. He should have tried to forget everything he had ever read, every briefing he had sat through, all the stuff he would have gladly never known. 

She would be fine. 

What the fuck was she doing there – she was an analyst, not, not what she was doing now? 

She would be fine. 

The people she worked for, they knew what they were doing, they wouldn’t put her in danger – he tried to forget the fragments she had let drop into conversation – he was far too fucking good at joining the fucking dots for his own fucking good. He was going to lose his fucking mind –

she was going to be fine.

She’d taken one of his t-shirts, dousing it in his cologne before she left – he said she could have the whole fucking bottle, dismissing for the moment just how restricted her baggage allowance was…She’d wrapped herself round him, kissing him, taking away his thoughts of anything, save them, save her – the feel of her tongue against his, the bite of her teeth against the fullness of his lip, her hands, oh her fucking hands. 

“I can’t take you with me – but I want to feel you – this is the best I can do.”

He’d handed her an assortment of socks too, not wanting to ask her what the fuck she wanted with them, she showed him, some oblong with duct tape.

“What, what the fuck is that?” 

“My cock!” She’d sung Shania Twain. 

Both of them distracted when he argued that, that wasn’t a cock, and if she had forgotten so easily, he was happy to remind her.

Sweat cooling, still breathless, she’d explained, and his heart had frozen. She was going to need to drive, she would need to pass as a man. She made a joke of it, talking about binders, about sock cocks, about thinking like a man – insisting on watching him walk, until he forgot how his feet worked. She was somewhere where women couldn’t drive, somewhere if they knew she was a woman….he forced those thoughts down.

She would be fine.

She would be fine.

Another update – she spoke of the stars, was that a message for him, the promise they’d made, they’d go somewhere away from everything, have time together, lie and look at the stars, count them until they forgot everything else. (He told himself it was a lie, but they both needed to believe it now, believe she would come back, believe she would come back to him, believe she would be fine.) He promised to map the constellations of her freckles.

Every meeting he sat through, the only thing in his head stupid love songs, lyrics he couldn’t shake. Fucking Sinatra! “I’ve got you under my skin.” – He would if he could, burrow into her, make himself part of her, make himself new, see himself through her eyes. “So deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me.” Fuck, he had thought his heart had long since shriveled to dust, and she had taken it, and warmed it and renewed it. “I said to myself this affair never will go so well.” Was that what this was, an affair? That’s what it had been. But he couldn’t even fool himself that, that was what it was now. “I’d sacrifice anything come what might for the sake of having you near.” Repeating and repeating in his ear – fuck, Ollie had given him a look and he’d been fucking humming. Standing in the fucking lift and fucking humming. “Don’t you know little fool, you never can win, use your mentality, wake up to reality.” Aye, that would be right, accept reality for what it was. She was a glorious precious moment in his bleak, drab, cold existence. However much he loved her, she wasn’t his, and no amount of lyrics would make it so. Had he told her she was his whole world? Of course he fucking hadn’t, one, she would freak the fuck out, two, he was a fucking coward. Nothing in his life made sense without her. Fuck, he was fucking toast.

When the call came through, all he could say was out. His cold stare, the words controlled and low, barely above a whisper and they fled from the room.

He locked the door, he slid to the floor, he buried his head in his hands. He ‘phoned Devon back, it would be fine, no, no, this would just be protocol. An explosion and the comms going down, no, no, it would be fine. What the fuck was she doing anywhere where there were bombs. 

She would be fine.

Four hours before they knew she was safe. Four hours. He talked to Devon for almost all of them, keeping him calm the only thing allowing him to hold onto his own sanity. 

She was in a fucking Hilton?!?! Well that sounded a lot better than bombs, steadily working her way through the hotels entire menu. He didn’t say, the casual things she let slip, the points when his blood ran cold. She was high on adrenaline and he would take anything so long as he knew she was fucking safe. He wanted her to come home, knowing home wasn’t him, but just wanting her safe, and he said nothing. No one told her what to do, well not if he wanted to keep his balls.

Fuck, he listened to Les fucking Miserables – bring her home, bring her home – he would do anything, he would sacrifice anything, just let her be fucking fine.

The second call, and he had come close to blacking out. He had just made it into the gents before he threw up. Fucking Ollie, was he a fucking spectator to every fucking moment of his fucking life. 

“What the fuck you fucking looking at you fucking cunt.” – not his most imaginative insult, but…”Look, you keep fucking staring at me, I’ll rip your fucking head off and vomit into you, and salmonella may not be fucking airborne but if I were you, I wouldn’t take my fucking chances!”

What was the fucking cunt doing pissing in fucking Number 10 anyway? Were no urinals safe from his presence?

Ollie stopped, paused, opened his mouth, closed it, went to say something, almost extended his hand towards Malcolm and then decided as always that retreat was the better part of valour. Too fucking right, that as how it always was, how It always would be, Malcolm would be left alone with his misery – just as he fucking deserved.

“Wash your fucking hands you poxy cunt.” – He couldn’t let his façade slip entirely.

She was ok, she was safe. Another fucking bomb, how was that fucking safe. Fuck – he couldn’t deal with this. He had held it together the first time, talking Devon through it, reassuring him, calling in all his contacts. But this, fuck, no more fucking bombs. One was too many. He’d been here for 7/7, but he’d been a spectator, she was meant to be fucking safe. She wasn’t meant to come to any fucking harm. Fuck where she was now – how was that the safe fucking option? 

He splashed water over his face, took his frustration and anger out on the paper towel dispenser and scrubbed his face ‘til it was raw. 

Sam looked at him, he held his hands up.

“Hold all my calls, hold everything – I don’t want to be disturbed. Please.” He looked at her pleadingly, please don’t ask me, don’t ask me to explain, do what I ask, don’t be kind, don’t say anything, just do this.

“Of course, Malcolm.”

He sighed with relief. Inside his office he ran his hands through his hair – he could do this – he wasn’t the one in danger. He could be strong for her.

London, Dubai, Dubai, Dallas, Dallas, London. He had somehow worked through the process of loading up a prepaid credit card with most of his bank account. Booking the tickets he had left to Batman – he trusted him, he gave him the numbers without a thought. They had spoken on the phone every day, supporting each other, an unlikely alliance formed through the love of her.

There was champagne, there were fucking rose petals. Fucking, fuck me. He sat himself down. He hadn’t seen her in the departures lounge, but, it would be different, she would be in the transit lounge, she would be fine, he would see her in moments, 

she would be fine, 

this wasn’t about him, this was about her, he would show her the love and care she deserved. He heard her before he saw her, insisting there had to be some mistake, she wasn’t booked in first. He ducked out of the cabin, she saw him, she looked confused, had he made a stupid mistake – he should have just upgraded her, fuck him, he shouldn’t have come? Then her face broke into a smile and she was in his arms and nothing else mattered. He let her hold him as hard as she wanted, one hand in her hair, the other rubbing small circles on her shoulder, so worried of hurting her. Voice muffled, buried in her hair, telling her he loved her, over and over, incapable of sentences, incapable of eloquence, just wanting her to know this, just wanting her to hear this, just wanting her to know he loved her. Nothing else mattered. She slept, safe in his arms, and he willed himself to stay awake, to remember this, to treasure every second of this, but he succumbed too, the pressures of the preceding weeks reaping their toll on him too. He had no idea where he was when he awoke, her face buried against his chest, trying to muffle her cries, and it tore him apart, hearing her like this, feeling the sobs wracking her. Telling her she wasn’t alone, telling her he was with her, telling her he wouldn’t leave her, knowing it was a lie. There wasn’t a moment he didn’t hate himself, but now more than most. He wasn’t enough for her, he would never be enough. They would always be torn, but for now, he would suffice.

He sent a courier with his phones to Glenn – he could pick them up when he came back, so fucking what if he had to take a fucking detour to that fucking cottage in arse end of beyond in Wales. That was a perfect plan, right ‘til he realised he couldn’t tell her he was on his way. Would she go to the airport? He’d told her there was no fucking way he was going on holiday. Whatever he’d promised. It was the last week before parliamentary recess. He’d been unnecessarily brusque, he’d pretended not to notice how hurt she was, listing all the practicalities to cover over the moment. He hated himself, how could he think that there was anything that counted more than being with her?

18 fucking hours. 18 fucking hours. He had to stop flying. He would video conference, fucking face time the rest of his life, anything not to fly. He might not have a coronary but he was definitely working on fucking deep vein fucking thrombosis – and no he wasn’t wearing those fucking flight socks, he was fucking suffering enough. He almost eviscerated a stewardess until he remembered where he was, she was doing her job, she was good at it, she was being kind to him, she could see he was frayed, she could see he was barely holding it together. He was wedged into a seat that wouldn’t have comfortably held her, she was barely over 5 feet, him, his fucking knees were pressed up against his fucking chest. One flight in first and he had gone fucking soft.

She was there, she was waiting for him, she had expected him, she knew him better than he knew himself.

Her body nestled between his legs – her back against his chest, his chin resting on her head when she would let him, tucking her into him, nestling her against him. She sang song after song, and he couldn’t have been happier than to be here, to be now, with her – he ignore the fact that most of the songs were utter fucking crap, her voice a revelation, the tone pure and containing so much emotion. She had been shy at first, suddenly hesitant, fearing what he would say. What was the description he had heard “a tone deaf screech owl in a wind tunnel” – she was whatever the reverse was? A siren? He knew he was happy to be shipwrecked on the rocks of her love. He slapped himself for thinking that, he certainly wasn’t going to say that – and he saw her looking at him and he knew he had. She’d kissed him. Being an idiot had its rewards. They sat like that for hours as the day ended, as night fell as more stars than he had ever seen shone in the sky, and he knew the only ones he wanted to see were the ones in her eyes, and he may have said that aloud too. He took the guitar from her hands, she protested, he shhhed her and pretended he didn’t know what that did to her. The guitar felt unfamiliar in his hands, he fumbled finding the chords until muscle memory saved him and his fingers found what they wanted. He couldn’t think when he had last sung, the sound unfamiliar to his ears, his mouth forming the shapes and sounds from years before.

 

Mo rùn geal dìleas, dìleas, dìleas  
Mo rùn geal dìleas nach till thu nall  
Cha till mi fhèin riut, a ghaoi chan fhaod mi  
'S ann tha mi ghaoil 'na mo laighe tinn.  
Is truagh nach robh mi an riochd na faoilinn  
A shnàmhadh aotrom air bhàrr nan tonn  
Is bheirinn sgrìobag do'n eilean Ileach  
Far bheil an rìbhinn dh'fhàg m'inntinn trom.  
Thug mi mìos ann am fiabhras claoidhte  
Gun dùil rium oidhche gu'm bithinn beò  
B'e fàth mo smaointean a là 's a dh'oidhche  
Gum faighinn faochadh is tu bhi 'm chòir.  
Cha bhi mi strì ris a' chraoibh nach lùb leam  
Ged chinneadh ùbhlan air bhàrr gach gèig  
Mo shoraidh slàn leat ma rinn thu m'fhàgail  
Cha d'thàinig tràigh gun muir-làn na dèidh.

 

My faithful fair darling,  
My faithful fair darling, won't you turn back to me;  
I will not turn with you, my love, I cannot  
For my beloved is lying ill.  
I grieve I am not in the guise of a seagull,  
Swimming light on top of the waves;  
And I would journey to the island of Islay  
Where tarries the maiden who vexes my soul.  
I spent a month in the torment of fever  
When each night I did not expect to survive;  
The object of my thoughts each day and night  
That my request be granted and you at my side.  
I will not struggle with the tree I can't bend,  
Though each bough be amply laden with apples;  
My fond farewell to you if you have left me,  
The sea never ebbs, but follows the flow

She cried. He hadn’t meant to make her fucking cry. He never meant to make her cry. He had kissed her tears, kissed her eyelids, kissed her – so gently, so careful, so fearful she was still hurting, so fearful that he would cause her pain and still he did. 

Her arms were round his neck, her fingers in his hair, her mouth against his ear. Asking him, telling him, reassuring him. He stood the guitar against the wall. Standing, he pulled her to her feet, and before she could protest he swept her from her feet and up into his arms. Kicking the covers from the bed with his foot – he managed to gracefully lower her to the bed, following her down, not relinquishing his hold on her. She wriggled under him and he couldn’t quite suppress a smirk – he had missed her, he had missed this. He took her hands in his, closed one around her wrists and dragged them above her head. She gave him a look. She was so fucking beautiful, looking at him, trusting him, wanting him. Fuck, he was going to fucking cry. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her, kissing her, marking her, making her his. Letting go of her hands, he worked his way down her body, tracing patterns of constellations between her freckles (one promise fulfilled), using his tongue on her ‘til she was begging him – pleading with him, helpless with arousal and with laughter, cursing him for knowing every ticklish spot. He tried to tell her this was about her, only about her, and she said it was about them, she only wanted to come with him – and the tears he had controlled before fell freely now and it was her turn to shh him, to hold him, to bring him back to the moment – the time they had – not the past, not the future – but each here, with the other, now. If he could have made time stop, if he could have held the moment preserved in amber – this was it. For her he would be an idiot, for her he would be a fool, for her he would be as romantic as his mind could imagine, he wasn’t even sure there had been a moment before this when he had ever truly made love to a woman. He had never been shy, or awkward when it came to this, but now, here with her, he felt he’d forgotten everything he ever knew. Her hands on him, her mouth on him and he was too close. He had never felt so naked, so exposed, the whole of his soul bared before her. He ducked his head, suddenly embarrassed in the light of her love. She clasped his face between her palms, softly caressing his cheeks, and he couldn’t help but nuzzle into her touch, hungry always for each moment. She pulled him down to her and kissed him with such tenderness he felt something inside him give. His forehead against hers, his weight on one arm he pushed into her. The sounds he heard he realised were his own, echoed by her – he could only gasp and moan and try to hold himself still until he found some equilibrium, ‘til he could find a moment’s stillness, a moment’s control. Nothing existed but her. He moved again, wrapping one arm round her, pulling her against him. Trying to move slowly, thrusting into her, trying to hold off the moment, feeling her rise to meet everyone of his movements. The distant murmur of waves seeming to echo and reflect their rhythm. He fought against closing his eyes, wanting to watch her face, wanting to hold onto the moment – wanting to see her fall apart under him – and she flipped them. Pressing his hands above his head, marking his neck with her teeth, making him writhe under her, begging her to move when he had breath and when she wasn’t plundering his mouth for kisses, so hot and sweet. It was enough to be in her, to be surrounded by her, moments more and this alone would be enough. She moved, rising and falling over him, and he couldn’t last – he freed one hand, to brush against her, to bring her closer her, to bring her with him.

They lay there, entwined, arms and legs, no thought of a shower, just wanting to lie there.

“Honu.” That was what she had called him. He had blinked at her. Sleepy and fucking happy, he had no idea what she had said. He smiled at her and she kissed him, and if he could trade all his smiles for kisses, he would keep smiling. He would never tire of her kisses, the soft sounds she made, the sighs, the moans when he brushed against the points that drove her wild. He used ever thing he had to worship her body, to show her, body and soul how much he loved her. It took them some time to return to the topic of “honu”, even longer for Malcolm to remember. It wasn’t ‘til she repeated it some hours later – when she was persuading him into the joys of lying in a hammock. Persuading him by pointing out it could fit both of them. Persuading him that sunbathing meant she would rub sun cream into his skin. Persuading him, when she explained slowly and carefully that, that also meant he could rub cream into her skin. His hands wandered, as did his mind and his mouth. More hours passed before they found themselves in the hammock, the warm buzz of their love making still coursing through them and the icy mai tais doing nothing to diminish the feelings either.   
“Honu?” His head was resting on her shoulder as he asked. 

“Sea turtle. That’s what you are.”

“Cold blooded sea reptile. Nice.”

She cuffed him.

“No! Have you never watched Finding Nemo? Coolest creatures in the sea, sea turtles. Cool, not cold! Ok, they may snap and bite if you get too close – but not if you approach them properly. Plus, they sunbathe – they like to bask in the warmth.” She snuggled more deeply into his embrace for emphasis. “Wise travellers and guides too.”

He went to shake his head, to protest, to argue, the same as he would always do, shrugging off everything that remotely resembled a compliment. Never worthy. But if he rejected what she said, he was rejecting what she thought, rejecting her, he had been dismissive far too often. He would take this for what it was – he would be her Honu. Maybe he could be the kind of man she seemed to see in him?

He looked at her, all he saw in her gaze was warmth and love. She kissed the tip of his nose. Distracting him, she moved her hand, sliding it down over the sparse hairs dusting his chest, over his stomach (ignoring his self conscious flinch) down over the thicker trail of hair, dipping under the waist band of his shorts (the shorts she had taken him to buy - for fuck’s sake he had turned up in Hawaii in a fucking suit, and if she had, had her way, he would be wearing fucking Speedos), brushing against him, making him buck into her touch – any pretence of self control long since abandoned.

“I love you.” It was all he could say, and the only thing that mattered.

They made their goodbyes long before the airport. Somehow neither of them could hold themselves to that – they kissed, once. For them, the kiss was chaste. 

Neither of them saw the photographer.


	14. The Power of Nudge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm/Reader have a weekend planned - it does quite work out how they expected.  
> Malcolm can be an adorable woobie...  
> (look, please, will someone write these for me?)
> 
> (the Behaviour Unit is a real thing, they were on Radio 4....sorry, not sorry)
> 
> (oh, and, also, the cat removed the letter "r" from my laptop, so if you spot any typos....)

7 hours of cuntspangling bullshit.

“The trees are in their autumn beauty, the woodland paths are dry  
Under the October twilight, the water mirrors a still sky.”

“Can’t beat a bit of Wordsworth.”

“Its Yeats.”

“That’s as maybe, but, I am sure you are all ready and as enthused as I am for the talk today from Dr Heller from the Behaviour Unit.”

“I was considerably more thrilled to see that the press have seized upon the opposition MP who left his son in an hotel whilst he spent the night dancing. 500 people arrested for that last year, pity he wasn’t one of them.”

“Have you never left your child at home alone? Ah that’s right you don’t have any…or perhaps you do, you are an impenetrable clam when it comes to your private life. I have even heard the theory that you have a handy coffin filled with earth in the bowels of the building where you retire to for a refreshing few moments slumber before dismembering your next victim.”

“I feel you may be conflating your supernatural monsters, but no matter, as you said, my private life remains private, which is more than I can say for most, ministers, staff and party members. Now, if we are to get things started, it would help to arrive at DoSac on time.”

All the saints preserve him from Julius, Rt Hon The Lord Nicholson of Arnage and his good ideas. It wasn’t as if any of his days were empty that he needed to fill them with listening to another bright idea. A bright idea involving DoSac.

Dr Heller will be telling us about the power of nudge. He’s part of the behavioural insights team, he is highly recommended, glowing references, outstanding achievements so far.”

Julius was perilously close to holding his elbow, he moved forward a step – why did the man feel that if he had what he considered to be vital information to impart it required bodily contact?

Malcolm tried to settle himself into a chair as close to the door as possible, hoping for a call that he would just have to action and be off and away before the speech and Q&A could begin. He somehow found himself bracketed by Nicola and Julius and his hand held in the double grip of the speaker, who was telling him how much he admired him, how much he had heard about him and had he read his book – “How small changes, can make a big difference”? Malcolm knew what small change he would like to make and pictured it in graphic detail, which carried him through the next few minutes until he was able to reclaim his own hand and the man moved on to his next victim.

Somehow, he also found himself sitting at the front, between Julius and Nicola, he blamed this entirely on Ollie as he had found himself mesmerised by the oiliest display of sycophancy he had ever seen.

“We are dedicated to applying behavioural sciences to government.”

Malcolm looked round for the ghost of George Orwell.

“New ways, new tools, to influence the way we all behave.”

His gaze encompassed the room and Malcolm knew he meant, “influence all of you” – I don’t need to change….

“The Revenue sends out 50-70 million letters a year using strong encouragement and threats if you don’t pay your tax.”

Don’t deliberate the number of tax payers in the UK versus the number of letter, Malcolm told himself, its not worth it.

“We thought, what could happen if you try to be a little more persuasive, adding one line to a letter.”

Something about him made Malcolm’s flesh crawl, the voice, soft, even, reasonable, dispassionate, calm, patronising – we know better than you…

“Most people in your area pay their tax on time and you are one of the few yet to do so. This small change increases the payment rate by 15%.”

Malcolm deliberated sample size, whether this continued to work over time, whether he had sufficiently lost the will to live enough to read the damn book and see if there were any statistics to actually back up what the man was saying.

“Instead of threatening people.” 

People very obviously didn’t pause, turn and look at Malcolm.

“…. you are reminding them you are fellow citizens. Gentle intervention rather than a hard sanction.”

Baldy beamed beatifically throughout, and nodded at Malcolm whenever he had the misfortune to catch his eye.

“Imagine that these “crazy new ideas” might work, obviously, we would have a sunset clause, if this doesn’t work we shut down automatically after two years.”

Give someone a toe hold of two years and unless its an elected post, you never get rid of them.

“….feel this would really dovetail with everything you do here at DoSac and throughout the government.”

“….so its not so different from being a PM saying “why don’t my levers work”

(that ‘s right playing with trains, something the PM and Baldy both adored. Unlike most people of course, in Julius’ case he had his own personal train line – and don’t get him started on why the PM’s lever didn’t work….he wasn’t going to spin that again and there was a mental image he didn’t need)

“To conclude – the gap between those who sit outside and say, “why don’t you get anything done?” and those who sit inside and say “how do I get anything done?” We fill that gap.”

Malcolm managed to make his way to the back of the room and out the door during the applause, he was damned (he was damned anyway) if he was going to spend any more time with this, fuck the Q&A.

His phone rang as he stepped outside the door, he pondered whether there was a mobile blocker in the room, entirely the kind of underhand thing Julius would do to trap him in the room.

One line in a letter. Oh, this was just perfect. One simple line makes all the difference. One line with a hyperlink to direct the public to a Mid Suffolk District Council website. One line with the hyperlink to a hardcore porn website. Which one would Dr Heller predict would be the most effective to use with the public when encouraging them to check on their eligibility to vote. Everyone had apologised, no one had been offended – save Malcolm as someone had seen fit to send the website to his phone, and assorted images, and when he returned to his desk he found the material helpfully there too. He tried not to think how many guidelines had just been breached. Could no one in the entire universe proof read or at least check that a hyperlink ended up where you thought it did. His money was on some work experience hopeful who would have thought it was a bit of a laugh. He’d like to see Dr Heller expound on the positive consequences this would have. Change one fucking line…. One simple policy statement, one simple internet link, one porn site. Any thoughts of leaving early, well, leaving at the notional “on time”, dashed.

Not what they’d planned, definitely not what they’d planned.

Free time together was as rare as hens’ teeth. They had as close to weekend as they were going to get planned. Friday night and all of Saturday, both of them up before dawn on Sunday. Neither of them trying to over think that this would be the first intentional time she had stayed over. The luxury where neither of them were supposed to be anywhere else.

Malcolm had locked his phones in his desk as he’d left. If they needed him, that badly, they could come and get him. He unplugged the radio, the tv and the internet, lest he absentmindedly turn them on and have to react to the inevitable fuck up. Let Jamie run the ship, his untempered rabid response made everyone grateful for Malcolm’s moderate mauling. He put on a record – he winced remembering having to explain what a record was to an intern – Sinatra, that would work, Sinatra always worked. “The very thought of you” – he was a sentimental git.

Nothing planned save eating and sleeping and whatever might happen in between. Honestly, he wanted to watch Class, he was already 3 episodes behind. They hadn’t yet discussed their mutual viewing habits… she was already out of his league, would a lifelong appreciation of all things Who drop him further in his estimation? His ex’s mockery was an unceasing refrain in the back of his head – a Dementor she was, sucking the joy from everything. His niece had first described her like that and he never been able to shake the image – well, after he’d read the books. She’d texted him to ask him about his Patronus, he had no fucking idea what she was talking about, he’d call her Sunday night – they were due a chat and a catch up. Fuck it had been two months since they’d exchanged anything more than texts.

He was still standing in his hallway, hand poised on the handle of the front room, he wasn’t sure how far his bravery extended, how long he could keep E from noticing how much better she could do than him.

8 o clock came and went. He tried not to fret, tried not to run the vacuum over the already spotless house (to his eternal shame, he had a cleaner, a cleaner who wondered why he paid her, he spent so little time in the house she had a hard time telling what she’d done), he tried not to think that she might have changed her mind, had a better offer. Any offer that wasn’t him, was better. Before he became more of a maudlin, moon faced teenaged boy, he started work on dinner. They had tentatively agreed to cook together, as big a test of whatever they were that he could think of – he started to second guess himself when he began to dice the onions. She had cooked for him and it was as close to the best thing he had ever eaten, up there with memories of anything his nan had ever made for him (there again, his judgement had been clouded then – enough to eat counted as perfection, no matter what it was, and nostalgia made everything sweeter), he wondered what he was adding to the meals he had shared with E? 

Finally, the door bell sounded close to 9. She had been to the house before, but a guided tour hadn’t figured very highly on their agenda. He had come as close as he’d ever been to fucking someone on the doorstep with her, until a brief lucid moment brought him to his senses and they somehow made it inside.

“Sorry, bit under the weather.”

She looked ghastly, he didn’t say that.

“You should have cancelled.” He thanked every deity that she hadn’t.

“It’s not like we get to spend much time together as it is, I’m not missing this…..just give me a sec.”

Racing from the room and sprinting for the bathroom, Malcolm decided the fact that they hadn’t kissed hello, might not have been quite such a bad thing. He tried not to over analyse whether her perceived bad health was the only reason, was she faking it? Did she want it over between them? She could have simply not turned up. His brain wouldn’t stop. 

Five minutes, ten minutes, when it reached twenty, he went and knocked on the bathroom door.

“You still alive in there?”

“Not sure.”

“Can you open the door, or do I need to break it down?”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t recommend coming in here.”

“Well, I’ll need to at some point, it might as well be now….”

She opened the door.

“Are we ready for this?”

“Ready for what?”

“You watching me throw up?”

“I can manage that, I have nieces, nephews, Jamie, and Junior Ministers, and I don’t even like them.”

She traced a finger down his chest.

 

“So, you like me then?”  
Which would have been infinitely more romantic, and given him considerably more pause, if she hadn’t immediately turned to throw up again.

He held her hair and rubbed her back.

“No dinner then?”

“Fuck off! Fuck no, you sadistic man.”

“Not even chicken soup?”

“Look, if absolutely pushed, in an hour or two, I might just consider a sip of water. ‘til then, if you would just let me die, that would be perfect?”

Sitting on the floor with her between his legs, resting against his chest, within leaning distance of the toilet bowl, and it still felt as close to heaven as Malcolm thought he had ever been. Exactly the sort of casual romantic evening they had planned. No food, no sleep, no tv, and certainly nothing else. He risked the gentlest of kisses to her forehead.

“How can you?”

“What?”

“Kiss me? I’m gross and well, gross.”

“I honestly think I could never apply that word to you.”

“Well, well, the secrets are tumbling out tonight, Malcolm Tucker – the softy, the romantic.”

“Hush woman you can’t say things like that aloud.”

She smiled and almost laughed.

“That’s better.”

“What?”

“You’re smiling.”

“Don’t expect it to last, that was a one time thing.” She nestled closer to him.

“Ok, that’s at least 30 minutes and you haven’t thrown up – would you like a bath?”

“Can we, can we just stay like this a bit longer, its surprisingly nice.”

“This?”

“Sitting here, wrapped in your arms, I admit it, I rather like it.”

“Yeah, yeah, and you have a fever and you won’t remember anything you’ve said."

She swatted at one of his arms. 

“You need up?”

“NO! Take a compliment will you?!?!”

“You have met me? You have seen me work? You seriously think I’m still able to recognise a compliment? You’d need to take out an ad in the Times for starters, on the political pages , for me to even begin to think someone was complimenting me – even then I would presume it was an ironic joke.” He hadn’t really meant to say all of that out loud – but he couldn’t think, couldn’t remember when someone had been kind to him, nice to him, considerate, complimentary, he returned to his default position of presuming she was feverish.

“Come on love, however delightful this is you really can’t spend all night on the floor. Bath or bed?”

“No, just ring me a taxi.” 

His heart fell through the floor.

“I’m not going to chance infecting you.”

“NO!”

“No?”

“No, a – I have the constitution of a komodo dragon, I’m immune to everything. B – if I’m going to get “it”, I already have, and I expect reciprocal nursing, with appropriate outfit.”

“If you seriously expect me to dress as a nurse, you have to too.”

“That is something I am prepared to negotiate, but not right now, aye? Despite your skillful diversionary tactics, the matter at hand is getting you off the bathroom floor.”

“Yes, and I said, call me a taxi.”

“Ok, you’re a taxi.”

She groaned.

“So not funny. Its, just, well, I forgot my bag.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, much as clothes, bed and sleeping, haven’t figured large in our lexicon, I need something comfy if I’m going to bed – and not just you.”

He said nothing, but allowed one eyebrow to curve upwards in a questioning manner. He wasn’t going to push anything if it meant there was any chance she was going to stay with him.

“Well, I am fairly certain I can run to an old t-shirt and some pyjama bottoms, if that’s acceptable.”

He tried to sound calm, dispassionate, not needy, not desperate, not willing to do anything so she would stay. A wave of altruism washed though him, he didn’t want her home, alone and ill. Fuck altruism, he didn’t want to wake up alone, he was prepared to admit he was a selfish cunt.

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“Sorry, if you’d feel better at home, I’ll take you, but I insist on coming with you – you might need…something.” He tried not to gesture helplessly, tried to ignore just how weak and pleading he sounded.

“First things first, help me up.”

What did that mean, was she staying, or did she still want to go? He suppressed the groan of pain as he stood, parts of him protested the last hour, and all of him protested the loss of her against him. He shivered.

“See! Infected!”

“Nope, cold.”

He gave her his arm and between them she returned to a mostly vertical position – she stumbled a little, coming to rest against him again.

“Ewwww!”

“What?”

“Fuck, I stink!”

(He didn’t smile at their shared common place profanity.)

“ I need to take you up on the offer of a bath, it it’s still available?”

(That meant she was staying? Right?)

“Coming right up, sort of.”

He hooked the toilet seat closed with one foot and lowered her to a seated position, mostly popped up against the wall.

“Are you ok for two minutes?”

“Of course…probably.”

He raced into the spare room, grabbed the blanket his niece had given him, that he denied liking, came back, wrapped her up and started to run the bath, looking for anything other than washing up liquid that could be counted as a soothing addition. Spare bedroom again, his search yielded up a bottle of something with exotic fruit left behind from the last family visit – the word “bath” appeared on the packaging, so he had to presume it wasn’t a cocktail. Foam, bubbles, too many fucking bubbles, but what he took to be a pleasing smell. He checked the temperature, parboiling his fingers as a consequence. Adding what he hoped was an acceptable quantity of cold he tried to stop listening to the uber critical versions of himself in his head, tutting at him, fussing over a simple bath like an old mother hen. He helped her undress, trying not to react, or marvel whenever his fingers brushed her skin. When she stumbled again, he helped her into the bath, kneeling at its side whilst her arms remained round his neck. He sighed unashamedly when she sank back and bit his lip at the moan of appreciation she gave as the warm water surrounded her (his mind replayed the other times he’d heard that sound and how much he would give to hear it again.)

“You ok?”

“Not going to wash my back?”

How could she be so seductive when she looked and sounded like a day old corpse – he didn’t say that either.

“Give me another couple of minutes.”   
Trying not to think about her skin, her back under his fingers, soap, slick, slippery, nope, not thinking.

The t-shirt and pjs he found with the minimal throwing to the four corners of the earth the contents of the wardrobe. He grabbed the softest, fluffiest towels from deep in the airing cupboard and added them to the pile (he was turning into his nan.)

Somehow the point where he had intended to change when he arrived home hadn’t happened. Plans for a long shower had escaped him too. He’d discarded his tie and jacket, but the rest of his armour was still in place. He dropped his cufflinks onto the side of the sink (trying not to think about the last time he’d had to dismantle the pipe underneath to retrieve them) and rolled the now slightly dejected sky blue cotton up over his elbows.

He washed her back, allowing himself to get lost in the flow of the suds over her, watching them, imagining his mouth, his hands on her in their stead. Did she have any idea what she did to him? Did she feel anything akin to what he did? He should talk to her, he should tell her, he didn’t know what “this” was, and he didn’t want to scare her away, by declaring anything. He would take, he would accept, he would be thankful for whatever he had. But, oh, he was greedy. Realising he had washed the same section of her shoulder for seconds uncounted, he dropped the sponge. 

“Do you…do you want me to wash your hair?”

The noises of affirmation she gave were hot wired to parts of him that he wished weren’t paying as keen attention. No shampoo but his, it would have to do. He filled the sink with fresh water and grabbed a jug. He didn’t blind her and the noises of pleasure she continued to emit as he massaged her scalp threatened to undo what little resolve he had.

She lay back after he finished and he realised he was jealous of the bubbles surrounding her, hiding her from him.

“I should get out, I don’t think I can even call it pruning anymore.” She waved her fingers at him, exposing far more of her to his gaze. He swallowed.

Wrapping her, drying her, trying to remember to be considerably less brutal than when he was drying himself. Why couldn’t he extend kindness to himself? Why did he think he wasn’t worthy of consideration? When had he learned to hate himself? Oh, he knew he wasn’t worthy of her and that hurt most of all. At least he could still feel pain. Oh, the thrill of her attention, turning his head, he should have accepted it ended in Paris, well ended when they left the train. He shouldn’t keep clinging to this, to her.

“Penny for them?”

“What?”

“Your thoughts?”

“Not worth even that, just thinking, I do that sometimes… How are you doing, honestly?”

“Miserable, alive, but miserable. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“What are you being sorry about?”

“This!”

“This isn’t what we planned.”

“Love, you’re still here, we’re still together.” Which was more than he’d ever intended ever saying out loud.

“But this, you can’t possibly want to spend an evening with me throwing up?”

How to say it, how to convey what he felt, what he meant.

“Honestly, there is nowhere in the world I would rather be, but if I could wish you well, I would.”

That wasn’t too desperate, too needy, too clingy….was it?

He passed her the tee and the pants.

“I don’t suppose….” She trailed off.

“What?” He’d said that a lot, did he sound too interrogative, too demanding, too angry, too much like he sounded every fucking day?

”Just ask!”

“Is there any chance I could snag a pair of boxers too?”

“I think I have a fresh pack somewhere.”

“Any pair, to be honest, it’s probably better if they are broken in….I think my hips are a little more generous than yours.”

He tried not to think about that, tried not to find it sensuous. The thought of her in his underwear, his underwear against her. Any other moment, any other time, he would kiss her, pull her into his arms and not let go. He wasn’t entirely certain he wasn’t blushing.

“Come on.”

He half pulled, half carried, half pushed (that’d be right, three halves, his mind was shot and his maths with it) her into the bedroom. Whilst he rummaged in yet another drawer to find something he hoped might begin to pass for appropriate. Here he’d been thinking the biggest real life issues they would be facing was the appropriateness or otherwise of his viewing habits, now he was compelled to consider the etiquette of lending someone his underwear. Someone, girlfriend, partner, significant other, friends with benefits, he didn’t have a label, he wasn’t sure he wanted a label, there hadn’t ever been anything in his life like this before. Memory made him realise just how shallow his marriage had been. He just didn’t want this to end – he was poking the ashes and embers far too far ahead of time, pessimistic fucker, that’s what he always was. 

She tried to argue about sleeping in his bed, still talking about germs – he tried an exaggerated eye toll, which he was certain she was wilfully ignoring. In the end he pulled off the covers, swept her up and put her in bed, tucking he cover back around her and placing the pillows in what he hoped was an optimal position. He chanced the softest, most chaste, most fleeting of kisses to her forehead.

“Just need to do a few things, shower, put things away…” 

He couldn’t think what to keep saying. Before he did anything else, he brought her water, a mug of tea (at least she shared the view there was almost nothing that tea couldn’t improve) and a bucket, just in case. He tucked a hot water bottle against her stomach – she could discard or ignore them all, but he didn’t want to leave her uncared for.

He swept the kitchen work tops clear of the preparations for the evening meal, some components were salvageable and he put them in the fridge. He contemplated cleaning the fridge, perhaps he should poke at the box of paperwork he promised he wouldn’t bring home. 

He stood under the shower reviewing how utterly unprepossessing his physique truly was – veins, sinews, flabby, stringy, no discernible muscles, wiry if he was being wildly generous, a sparse smattering of hair. He ran a hand over his head as he washed his hair – at least he wasn’t bald, there again, not so much a hair cut ,shorn, suppressing any suggestion of the incipient rampant curls. He cursed, he shouldn’t be aroused, but he was, half hard most of the evening. Holding her, feeling her against him. Every time she moved – he should have more control than this, he should be better than this. The memory of her, the memory of them and he could forget to breathe. He touched his face, it wasn’t his imagination, he was smiling. He turned the water to cold, he stood there ‘til he couldn’t feel any part of him. He towelled himself so savagely his skin was red and raw. He agonised over what was appropriate for him to wear. Naked, that had been fine, ‘til now, but that had been in the heat of the moment. He stood there in boxers and t-shirt, should he hide is legs and arms with pyjamas? Suits, that was it, that was what he wore. He’d overheard someone say that there were probably buttons on his skin. He brushed his teeth, he flossed, his gums bled, he used mouth wash, he swore. He deliberated shaving, not so much for the aesthetics, she had claimed to like him with stubble, she had nuzzled him, she had run her hand over his face and if he could have purred he would – that was then, now, shaving was a way to kill more time, time when he wouldn’t have to say anything, time when she could already be asleep.

Anything to hold off from finding out whether she would let him share the bed, from finding out all they had was sex.

This definitely wasn’t what they had planned.

She was crying softly. He was a bastard, he knew he was. He knelt on the floor next to her, he hesitated, his hand reaching out, hovering over her. Finally, he placed it on her shoulder, she pulled him to her, burying her face against his chest, sobbing. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, could he even begin to tell her how much of a cunt he was, what he’d doubted, how he doubted? He murmured what he hoped were soothing noises, stroking her hair, waiting for the crying to subside. She was trying to tell him something between sobs, and he saw the glint of fury in her eyes (he took that as a good sign). 

“I,” each word punctuated by a post sob hiccup of breath, which infuriated her more, “thought, you weren’t, coming, back!”

He hung his head, he wanted to lie, he wanted to have a reason, an explanation for why he’d been so long, why he’d thought about not returning. He was a certifiable idiot and he knew it. He held her closer, breathing in the fragrance of her, the warmth of her, trying to find the words to say.

“Let’s sleep….yeah?”

She lifted the covers unhesitatingly, and he hated himself more. She snuggled against him and his teeth were clenched so hard his face hurt. He held her and she was soon asleep in his arms. He lay there watching the minutes turn into hours, thinking what he could say.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please....
> 
> If you hated this - tell me.
> 
> If you loved this - tell me.
> 
> If you really loved this - please share.
> 
> No, really, I haven't forgotten the other stories, I might have a way forward with Artau - I just need to move the chapters round....


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